1

Copyrio/it. J^^O. bv ZvUlfi, £rown d: Cf

. . ..:,*-'. C4>yright, 1900,

By Little, Brown, and Company.

All rights reserved.

0

mmbersttg Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A

MONDAY TALES.

THE LAST LESSON.
A YOUNG ALSATIAN'S NARRATIVE.

That morning it was quite late before I started
for school, and I was terribly afraid I should be
scolded, for Monsieur Hamel had told us that he
would question us upon participles, and I did not
know the first thing about them. For a moment
I thought of escaping from school and roving
through the fields.

The day was so warm, so clear ! The blackbirds
were whistling on the outskirts of the woods. In
Rippert Meadow, behind the sawmill, the Prus-
sians were drilling. All these things were far
more attractive to me than the rule for the use of
participles. But I mustered- up strength to resist
temptation, and hurried on to school.

As I reached the town hall, I saw a group of
people ; they loitered before the little grating,
reading the placards posted upon it. For two
years every bit of bad news had been announced
to us from that grating. There we read what bat-
tles had been lost, what requisitions made ; there
we learned what orders had issued from head-

849303

2 Monday Tales.

•quarteb. ' 'Mi^ though I did not pause with the
.rest,. -I wondered to myself, ''What can be the
fnattW rtdv/.?'- • '- •; '

As I ran across the square, Wachter, the black-
smith, w=ho7 in company with his apprerrtiee, was
absorbed in reading the notice, «5«4aimed,—

**Not so fast, child ! You will reach your school
soon enough ! "

I believed he was making game of me, and I was
quite out of breath when I entered Monsieur
Hamel's small domain.

Now, at the beginning of the session there was
usually such an uproar that it could be heard as
far as the street. Desks were opened and shut,
lessons recited at the top of our voices, «tt
shouting together-, each of ...us stopping his ears
that he might hear better. Then the master's big
ruler would descend upon his desk, and he would
say, —

'' Silence ! "

I counted upon making my entrance in the midst
of the usual babel and reaching my seat unob-
served, but upon this particular morning all was
hushed. Sabbath stillness reigned. Through the
open window I could see that my comrades had
already taken their seats; I could see Monsieur
Hamel himself, passing back and forth, his for-
midable iron ruler under his arm.

I must open that door. I must enter in the
midst of that deep silence. I need not tell you
that I grew red in the face, and terror seized me.

But, strangely enough, as Monsieur Hamel scru-

The Last Lesson, 3

tinized me, there was no anger in his gaze, ^i^
"^ard" very g-entljr, —

" Take your seat quickly, my little Franz. We
were going to begin without you."

I climbed over the bench, and seated myself.
But when I had recovered a little from my fright, I
noticed that our master had donned his beautiful
green frock-coat/^liis finest frilled shirt, and his
embroidered black silk calotte, which he wore only
on inspection days, or upon those occasions when
prizes were distributed. Moreover, an extraordi-
nary solemnity had taken possession of my class-
mates. But the greatest surprise of all came when
my eye fell upon the benches at the farther end of
the room. Usually they were empty, but upon
this morning the villagers were seated there, sol-
emn as ourselves. There sat old Hauser, with his
three-cornered hat, there sat the venerable mayor,

— Ihfi-aged-eaf^'ier, and other personages of impor-
tance. All of our visitors seemed sad, and Hauser
had brought with him an old primer, chewed at the
edges. It4ay-md£-4jften_ju£onJiis-^^
--spectacles. reposing trpon^ the pag^'.

While I was wondering at all these things. Mon-
sieur Hamel had taken his seat, and in the same-

^_^-rave and gentle tone in which he had greeted me,
he said to us, —

" My children, this is the last day I shall teach
you. The order has come from Berlin that hence-
forth in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine all in-
struction shall be given in the German tongue only.
Your new master will arrive to-morrow. To-day

4 Monday Tales,

you hear the last lesson you will receive in French,
and I beg you will be most attentive."

My " last " French lesson ! And I scarcely knew
how to write ! Now I should never learn. My
education must be cut short. How I grudged at
that moment every minute I had lost, every lesson
I had missed for the sake of hunting birds' nests
or making slides upon the Saar ! And those books
which a moment before were so dry and dull, so
heavy to carry, my grammar, my Bible-history,
seemed now to wear the faces of old friends, whom
I could not bear to bid farewell. It was with them
as with Monsieur Hamel, the thought that he was
about to leave, that I should see him no more,
made me forget all the blows of his ruler, and the
many punishments I had received.

Poor man ! It was in honor of that last session
that he was arrayed in his finest Sunday garb, and
now I began to understand why the villagers had
gathered at the back of the class-room. Their
presence at such a moment seemed to express a
regret that they had not visited that school-room
oftener ; it was their way of telling our master they
thanked him for his forty years of faithful service,
and desired to pay their respects to the land whose
empire was departing.

I was busied with these reflections when I heard
my name called. It was now my turn to recite.
AhJ what would I not have given then, had I been
able to repeat from beginning to end that famous
rule for the use of participles loudly, distinctly,
and without a single mistake ; but I became en-

The Last Lesson, 5

tangled in the first few words, and remained stand-
ing at my seat, swinging from side to side, my
heart swelling. I dared not raise my head. Mon-
_sieiir-Ham.el -was addressing me.

*' I shall not chide thee, my little Franz ; thy
punishment will be great enough. So it is ! We
say to ourselves each day, * Bdr! I have time
enough. I will learn to-morrow.' And now see
what results. Ah, it has ever been the greatest
misfortune of our Alsace that she was willing to
put off learning till To-morrow ! And now these
foreigners can say to us, and justly, ' What ! you
profess to be Frenchmen, and can neither speak
nor write your own language ? ' And in all this,
my poor Franz, you are not the chief culprit.
Each of us has something to reproach himself
with.

** Your parents have not shown enough anxiety
about having you educated. They preferred to
see you spinning, or tilling the soil, since that
brought them in a few more sous. And have I
nothing with which to reproach myself ? Did I
not often send you to water my garden when you
should have been at your tasks? And if I wished
to go trout-fishirtg, was my conscience in the least
disturbed wl^e'n I gave you a holiday?"

One topic leading to another. Monsieur Hamel
began to speak of the French language, saying
it was the strongest, clearest, most beautiful lan-
guage in the world, which we must keep as our
heritage, never allowing it to be forgotten, telling
us that when a nation has become enslaved, she

6 Monday Tales,

holds the key which shall unlock her prison as
long as she preserves her native tongue.^

Then he took a grammar, and read our lesson
to us, and I was amazed to see how well I under-
stood. Everything he said seemed so very simple,
so easy ! I had never, I believe, listened to any
one as I listened to him at that moment, and never
before had he shown so much patience in his ex-
planations. It really seemed as if the poor man,
anxious to impart everything he knew before he
took leave of us, desired to strike a single blow
that might drive all his knowledge into our heads
at once.

The lesson was followed by writing. For this
occasion Monsieur Hamel had prepared some
copies that were entirely new, and upon these were
written in a beautiful round hand, " France y Alsace!
^Frunety—Ahae^-I "

These words were as inspiring as the sight of
the tiny flags attached to the rod of our desks. It
was good to see how each one applied himself, and
how silent it was ! Not a sound save the scratch-
ing of pens as they touched our papers. Once,
indeed, some cockchafers entered the room, but no
one paid the least attention to them, not even the
tiniest pupil ; for the youngest were absorbed in
tracing their straight strokes as earnestly and-cp:^-
scientiously as if these too were written--in French !
On the roof of the schoolhouse the pigeons were
cooing softly, and I thought to myself as I listened,

1 " S'il tient sa langue il tient la cle qui de ses chaines le
delivre." F. Mistral.

The Last Lesson, 7

"And must they also be compelled to sing in
German?"

From time to time, looking up from my page, I
saw Monsieur Hamel, motionless in his chair, his
eyes riveted upon each object about him, as if he
desired to fix in his mind, and forever, every detail
of his little school. Remember that for forty years
he had been constantly at his post, in that very
school-room, fn''^''"g- t^r ??"^^^-p^->yg«^»«'yri Little
had changed. The desks and benches were pol-
ished and worn, through long use ; the walnut-trees
in the playground had grown taller; and the
hop-vine he himself had planted curled its tendrils
about the windows, running even to the roof. What
anguish must have filled the poor man's heart, as
he thought of leaving all these things, and heard
his sister moving to and fro in the room overhead,
busied in fastening their trunks ! For on the mor-
row they were to leave the country, never to
return. Nevertheless his courage did not falter;
not a single lesson was omitted. After writing
came history, and then the little ones sang iheif
'y3ar-S£y Bi, Bo, Bur together. Old Hauser, at
the back of the room, had put on his spectacles,
and, holding his primer in both hands, was spelling
out the letters with the little ones. He too was ab-
sorbed in his task ; his voice trembled with emo-
tion, and it was so comical to hear him that we all
wanted to laugh and to cry at the same moment.
jMJT never shall I forget that last lesson !

Suddenly the church clock struck twelve, and
then the Angelus was heard.

8 Monday Tales,

At the same moment, a trumpet-blast under our
window announced that the Prussians were return-
ing from drill. Monsieur Hamel rose in his chair.
He was very pale, but never before had he seemed
to me so tall as at that moment.

*' My friends — " k&«.*aid, "my friends — I —
I — "

But something choked him. He could not finish
his sentence.

Then he took a piece of chalk, and grasping it
with all his strength, wrote in his largest hand, —

" Vive La France ! "

He remained standing at the blackboard, his
head resting against the wall. He did not speak
again, but a motion of his hand said to us, —

" That is all. You are dismissed."

A Game of Billiards, 9

A GAME OF BILLIARDS.

Even soldiers are exhausted after two days'
fighting, especially if they have passed the night,
knapsacks upon their backs, torrents of rain de-
scending upon them. And yet for three mortal
hours they had been left to wait in the puddles
along the highway, in the mire of fields soaked
with rain.

Heavy with fatigue, weakened by the effects of
previous nights, their uniforms drenched, they
pressed closer together for warmth and support.
Here and there, leaning upon a neighbor's knap-
sack, a man had fallen asleep standing ; and upon
the relaxed faces of these men, overcome by sleep,
might be read more plainly than before the traces
which weariness and privations had made. In the
mud and rain, without fire, without food, over-
head a sky heavy and lowering — around them, on
every side, the enemy ! Dismal indeed !

What are they doing yonder? What is going
on?

The guns, their mouths turned towards the
woods, seem to be lying in wait. The mitrail-
leuses from their hiding-places stare fixedly at the
horizon. All is ready for an attack. Why is none
made ? For what are they waiting ?

lo Monday Tales,

They await orders from headquarters, but none
come.

And yet it is only a short distance to headquar-
ters, to that beautiful Louis XIII. chateau whose
red-brick walls, washed by the rain, are seen half-
way up the hill, glistening through the thickets.
Truly a princely dwelling, well worthy of bearing
the fanion of a Marshal of France. Separated
from the main road by a big trench and a ramp of
stone, are green, smooth-shaven lawns extending
even to the stone steps of the chateau, and bor-
dered with vases of flowers. On the side of the
house farthest away from the road, the daylight
darts through the leafage of the arbors, making
bright openings in them. Upon an artificial pond
which sparkles like a mirror, swans are swimming,
and under the pagoda-shaped roof of a large aviary
peacocks and golden pheasants strut about, spread-
ing their wings and sending their shrill cries through
the foliage. Though the owners of the house have
departed, there is nowhere a perceptible sign of
that ruin and utter desolation which war brings in
its train. Under the oriflamme of the chief of
the army not the smallest flower dotting the lawn
has been destroyed, and it is indescribably charm-
ing to discover, so near the field of battle, that calm
and opulence that result from systematic care, — to
observe such evenly trimmed shrubberies, such
silent avenues of shade. The rain, which in its
descent elsewhere has rutted the roads and heaped
them with mire, in this quarter has been nothing
more than an aristocratic shower. Nothing vulgar

A Game of Billiards, 1 1

about it. It has revived the red tints of the bricks,
the verdure of the lawns, it has added fresh lustre
to the leaves of the orange-trees, to the swans'
white plumage. Everything glistens. The scene
is peaceful. In fact, were it not for the flag float-
ing from the top of the roof, and the sight of two
sentinels before the gate, one would never believe
headquarters were here.

The horses are resting in the stables ; here and
there officers' servants are seen, and orderlies in
undress, lounging about the kitchens of the chateau,
and now and then a gardener tranquilly dragging
his rake through the sand of the grounds.

In the dining-room, whose windows front the
entrance of the chateau, is seen a table partly
cleared, bottles uncorked, glasses tarnished, empty
and dimmed, resting upon the wrinkled cloth, —
in short, every indication that the repast is ended.
The guests have departed, but in a side room
loud voices are heard, peals of laughter, the rolling
of billiard balls, and the clinking of glasses. The
Marshal has just started upon his game, and that
is why the army is waiting for orders. Once the
Marshal has begun, the heavens might fall, but
nothing on earth would hinder him from finishing
his game.

For if the mighty soldier has a single weakness,
it is his fondness for billiards. There he stands, as
grave as though a battle had begun ; he is in full
uniform, his breast covered with decorations ; his
repast, the grog he has drunken, and the excite-
ment of the game animate him. His eyes sparkle,

12 Monday Tales,

and his cheek-bones are flushed. About him
gather his aides-de-camp, most assiduous in their
attentions, deferential, and overcome with admi-
ration at each of his shots. When the Marshal
makes a point, they rush towards the mark. Is
the Marshal thirsty? Each one desires to prepare
his grog ! Such a rustling of epaulettes and pa-
naches, such a rattling of crosses and aiguillettes !
How they bow and smile, these courtiers ! What
elegance and charm of manner ! And then to see
such embroideries, so many new uniforms, in this
lofty chamber carved in oak, opening upon parks
and courts of honor ! It reminds one of those
autumns of Compiegne, and makes him forget for
a moment those figures in muddied cloaks, gathered
yonder in the roads, making such sombre groups,
as they wait in the rain.

The Marshal's adversary is an officer of his staff,
a little captain who curls and laces and wears light
gloves; he is an excellent shot at billiards, and
could beat all the marshals on earth, but he under-
stands how to keep at a respectful distance from
his chief, and exercises all his skill in playing so
that he shall neither win, nor seem to lose, too
readily. Evidently an officer with an eye for the
future.

Attention, young man, look out ! The Marshal
is five points ahead. If you can end the game as
you have begun it, your promotion is surer than it
would be, were you standing outside with the
others, beneath those torrents of water that darken
the horizon. It would be a pity, too, to soil that

A Game of Billiards. 1 3

fine uniform, and tarnish the gold of its aiguillettes,
waiting for orders that never come.

The game is extremely interesting. The balls
roll, graze each other, and pass; they rebound.
Every moment the play grows more exciting.
But suddenly a flash of light is seen in the sky and
the report of a cannon is heard. A heavy, rum-
bling sound shakes the windows. Every one starts
and casts an uneasy glance about him. The Mar-
shal alone remains unmoved. He sees nothing,
hears nothing, for, leaning over the table, he is about
to make a magnificent draw-shot. Draw-shots are
his forte !

But again that flash, and again ! From the can-
non fresh reports, and nearer together now. The
aides-de-camp run to the window. Can it be that
the Prussians are attacking?

" Let them ! " says the Marshal, chalking his
cue. " Your turn, captain ! "

The staff thrills with admiration. Turenne asleep
upon a gun-carriage was nothing compared to this
marshal, so calmly absorbed in his game at the
moment of action ! But all this time the tumult in-
creases. With the shock of the cannon mingles
the rattling of the mitrailleuses, and the rumbling
of volley upon volley ; a reddish cloud dark at the
edges rises from the further end of the lawn. All
the rear of the park is on fire. Frightened pea-
cocks and pheasants clamor in the aviary, Arabian
horses, away in the stables, scent the powder and
rear in their stalls. At headquarters a general
commotion begins. Despatch follows despatch.

14 Monday Tales.

Messengers arrive at a gallop. Everywhere they
are asking for the Marshal.

But the Marshal is unapproachable. Have I not
told you that nothing in the world could hinder
him from finishing a game once begun?

"Your play, captain — "

But the captain is distracted. Ah ! Youth is
youth. He loses his head, forgets what he is
about, and makes two successive runs which almost
win the game for him. And now the Marshal is
furious. Surprise and indignation are visible upon
his manly features. At this very moment a horse
rushes into the courtyard at full speed and drops
exhausted. An aide-de-camp, covered with mud,
forces the sentry, makes one bound over the stone
steps, crying, '' Marshal, Marshal ! " And this is
his reception : the Marshal, red as a cock, and
swelling with anger, appears at the window, cue in
hand.

** Who is there? What is it? Is there no sentry
here?"

" But, Marshal — "

" Oh, yes, yes — later — let them wait for my
orders — in God's name ! "

And the window closes with a bang.

Let them wait for his orders ! And that is ex-
actly what they are doing, these poor fellows.
The wind drives rain and grapeshot in their faces.
Whole battalions are slaughtered, whilst others,
perfectly useless, stand bearing arms, unable to
understand why they remain inactive. Nothing
else to do. They wait for orders. But men may

A Game of Billiards, 15

die without word of command, and these men die
in hundreds, falling behind bushes, dropping in
trenches in front of that great silent chateau. And
even after death, the grapeshot continues to
lacerate their bodies, and from those gaping wounds
flows a silent stream, — the generous blood of
France. And above, yonder, in the l)illiard-room,
all is as excited as upon the battle-field, for the
Marshal has regained his advantage, and the little
captain is playing like a lion.

Seventeen ! eighteen ! nineteen ! Scarcely time
to mark the points. The sound of battle grows
nearer and nearer. The Marshal has but one
more point to play for. Already shells are falling
in the park. One has burst in the pond. Its
glassy sheet reddens, and a terrified swan is
seen swimming amid a whirl of bloody plumage.
And now the last shot.

And then — deep silence. Only the sound of
rain falling upon the leafage of the arbors, only an
indistinct rumbling noise at the foot of the hill, and
along the muddy roads a sound like the tramping
of hurrying herds. The army is utterly routed.
The Marshal has won his game.

1 6 Monday Tales,

THE VISION OF THE JUDGE OF
COLMAR.

Before he had taken the oath of allegiance to
Emperor William, there was nowhere a happier
man than little Judge Dollinger of the Court of
Colmar ; when he arrived in the court-room, full-
lipped, big-bellied, his toque pushed jauntily side-
wise, his triple chin resting placidly upon his
muslin neckband, he seemed to say, as he seated
himself, " Ah ! a nice little nap I shall have ! "
and it was a pleasure to see him stretch his plump
little legs, burying himself in his great armchair,
while he reposed upon that fair, soft leather
cushion to which he owed the fact that his com-
plexion was as fresh as ever, and his temper as
unruffled, although he had occupied a judge's seat
for more than thirty years.

Unfortunate Dollinger !

From the moment he touched that leather cir-
cumference he was lost. He found it so comfort-
able, grew so attached to that cushion of moleskin,
that sooner than budge from it, he became a Prus-
sian. Emperor William said to him, " Keep your
seat. Monsieur Dollinger! " and Dollinger kept it;
and here we behold him at the Court of Colmar,
dispensing justice as ably as ever, but in the name
of His Berlinese Majestyc

The Vision of the Judge of Colmar, 17

About him nothing has changed, — the same tri-
bunal, faded and dull, the same court-room, with its
shiny benches and hum of lawyers' voices, the same
dim, subdued light falling through the high win-
dows with their serge curtains, the same majestic
figure of the Christ, covered with dust. His head
bowed, His arms outstretched. But the Court of
Colmar has lost no whit of its former dignity in
passing over to Prussia. There is still an Em-
peror's bust back of the judges' bench. Yet, in
spite of all these things, Dollinger does not feel at
home. Vainly he rolls from side to side in his
armchair, buries himself in it angrily: he can no
longer enjoy those nice little naps of other days;
and when he chances, as of old, to fall asleep at a
hearing, he has frightful dreams !

Dollinger dreams that he is seated upon a high
mountain ; it reminds him somewhat of Honeck,
or the Balloon of Alsace. What is he doing there
alone, in his judge's robe, at that vast height where
nothing can be seen but stunted trees and swarms
of flies? Dollinger does not know why he is there.
Cold drops of sweat rise upon him ; he trembles in
suspense, and suffers all the agony of a nightmare.

Across the Rhine, behind the firs of the Black
Forest, the sun is rising, large and red ; and as it
rises, below, in the valleys of Munster and Thann,
is heard from one end of Alsace to the other an
indistinct rumble, the sound of footsteps and of
wagons in motion ; it grows louder and nearer.
Dollinger's heart sinks within him. Soon, upon
the long, winding road ascending the sides of the

1 8 Monday Tales,

mountain, the Judge of Colmar sees approaching
him a mournful, interminable train ; all Alsace has
chosen this pass of the Vosges as the starting-point
of its solemn emigration !

Leading the procession, come long wagons drawn
by four oxen, those long, open wagons which at
harvest-time are seen overflowing with sheaves ;
now, however, they are loaded with furniture, tools,
and luggage of all sorts. Big beds, tall presses,
calico hangings, chests and spinning-wheels, chil-
dren's chairs, ancestral armchairs, piles of ancient
relics dragged from their corners, and scattering
to every wind along the highway the sacred dust
of the hearth. Entire households depart in these
wagons, groaning as they advance. The oxen are
scarcely able to drag their burden, for it seems as
if the very earth clung to the wheels, as if these
handfuls of dust clinging to plough and harrow,
to rake and pickaxe, increased the burden they
bore, — as though this departure were indeed an
uprooting of the soil.

Then followed a silent train of people, of all con-
ditions and ages: the aged grandfather with his
three-cornered hat, — tremulous, leaning upon his
staff; boys with flaxen curls, a single suspender
supporting their trousers of fustian ; the paralytic
grandmother stout lads are bearing upon their
shoulders; mothers, pressing their nursing babes
closer to the breast; all are there, the brave-
hearted, and the infirm, soldiers to be, and those
who have faced the horrors of many a battle-field ;
cuirassiers, who have lost their limbs, dragging

The Vision of the Judge of Colmar, 19

themselves upon crutches ; artillery-men, emaciated,
broken-down, the damps of the casemates of Span-
dau still clinging to their uniforms. And all this
host moves on its way with heads erect ; at the
side of that very road over which they are passing,
the Judge of Colmar is seated, and as they pass
him by he reads upon each averted face an awful
look of anger and loathing.

Oh, unhappy Dollinger ! he longs to hide, to
flee, but it is impossible. For his armchair can-
not be moved from that mountain, and his leather
cushion is fastened to the armchair, and he is as
firmly attached to that leather cushion. And now
he understands that a sort of pillory stands there,
and he is in it, and his pillory has been erected
so high in order that all the world may witness
his shame.

The emigrants move on, village after village ;
those of the Swiss frontier leading enormous herds
of cattle ; those of the Saar carrying their heavy
iron tools in ore-wagons. Then the larger towns
arrive, spinners, tanners, weavers and warpers,
burghers and priests, rabbis, magistrates, black
robes and red robes. The tribunal of Colmar
appears, its venerable president at the head. And
Dollinger, overwhelmed with shame, seeks to hide
his face, but his hands are paralyzed ; tries to close
his eyes, but his eyelids are stiff and immovable.
There he is compelled to remain, the most ob-
served of observers ; he may not be spared a single
one of those contemptuous glances which his col-
leagues cast at him as they pass.

20 Monday TaleSo

A judge in the pillory ! Terrible indeed ! And,
worst of all, all his dear ones are in that concourse,
and not one of them appears to recognize him. His
wife, his children, pass before him, their eyes fixed
on the ground. It would seem that they too are
ashamed of him ! Even Httle Michel, whom he loves
so dearly, passes him by, never to return, and casts
not a single glance in his direction. But the aged
president pauses a moment, and whispers to him, —

'* Come with us, Dollinger. Do not remain
there, my friend ! "

But Dollinger is unable to rise. He tries to move
his limbs ; he calls. All day long the procession
moves on ; and as the daylight fades, it has disap-
peared in the distance, and silence descends upon
those fair valleys dotted with factories and belfry
towers. All Alsace has departed. Only the Judge
of Colmar remains. And there he sits at the top of
the mountain, riveted in his pillory, immovable.

Suddenly the scene changes. Yew-trees are
seen, black crosses, rows of tombs, and an assem-
blage of mourners. It is the cemetery of Colmar.
Some one of note has come to his last resting-place.
All the bells of the city are tolling. Councillor
Dollinger is dead ! That which honor could not
effect, death has accomplished. It has unscrewed
the immovable magistrate from his leather cushion,
and he lies at full length, this man whose sole
ambition was to remain seated forever !

What sensation more horrible than to dream
that one is dead and his own chief mourner? His
heart overcome with grief, Dollinger assists at his

The Vision of the Judge of Colmar, 21

own burial-service. And that which afflicts him
more than his death is the fact that in this immense
crowd which presses about him is neither friend
nor relative. No one from Colmar, — only the
Prussians ! Prussian soldiers escort the bier ;
Prussian magistrates are the chief mourners ; and
the words that are spoken over his grave are
Prussian; and the cold, cold earth thrown over
him is, alas ! Prussian earth. Suddenly the crowd
stands respectfully aside. A magnificent white
cuirassier approaches, concealing under his cloak
something which looks not unlike a crown of im-
mortelles. All about him voices are heard, saying,

" Look ! There is Bismarck ! There is Bis-
marck ! "

And the Judge of Colmar thinks sadly, " A great
honor. Count, you bestow upon me, but if I only
had my little Michel — "

He does not end his sentence. A mighty burst
of laughter interrupts him, — wild, mad, uncon-
trollable laughter, scandalizing to hear.

''What are they laughing about?" wonders the
terrified judge. He raises himself and looks. It
is his cushion, his own leather cushion, that Count
Bismarck has placed religiously upon his grave,
and around its moleskin circumference runs this
inscription, —

To JUDGE BOLLINGER,

The Glory of the Bench,i
Souvenirs and regrets !

1 " La Magistrature Assise." The play upon words is scarcely
translatable.

22 Monday Tales,

From one end of the cemetery to the other ring
peals of laughter, convulsive laughter; and the
boisterous mirth of the Prussians echoes even to
the floor of the vault where the dead man lies,
weeping with shame, overwhelmed, covered with
endless ridicule.

The Boy Spy. 23

THE BOY SPY.

They called him Stenne, " little Stenne." He
was a child of Paris, puny and pale. He might
have been ten, possibly fifteen years old. It is
hard to tell the age of such midges. His mother
was dead, and his father, an old marine, was on
guard in the Quartier du Temple. Babies and
nursemaids, old women carrying their camp-stools,
poor mothers, in short, all that portion of Paris that
jogs along on foot, found a safe retreat from
carriages in those gardens bordered by sidewalks ;
they were well acquainted with Father Stenne, and
they adored him. For they knew well that, in
spite of that ferocious mustache, the terror of
stray dogs and of many a lounger who frequented
the benches, the old soldier's smile was full of
kindness, almost maternal in its tenderness ; and to
see that smile, one had merely to ask the good
man, "How is your little boy?"

For Father Stenne loved his boy dearly. It
gladdened his heart to have the little fellow call for
him towards evening, after school was out; and
together they promenaded the walks, stopping at
every bench to reply to the polite greetings of the
frequenters of the gardens.

But, alas ! after the siege began, all was changed.
Father Stenne's square was closed, and petroleum

24 Monday Tales,

was stored there ; the poor man was compelled to
be on guard ceaselessly, passing his days in those
deserted groves, where everything was in confusion
and disorder. He was not allowed even a smoke.
He could not see his boy until he reached home,
late in the evening. You should have seen his
mustache when he mentioned the Prussians ! but
little Stenne was not at all averse to this new
Hfe.

For these gamins a siege furnishes considerable
diversion. No more lessons, no more school !
Vacation every day, and the streets full of life as
a field on a fair-day !

The boy roamed the streets all day long, and
never went in until nightfall. He accompanied the
battalions of the neighborhood as they marched
to the rampart, with a preference for those where
the bands played the liveliest music, and on that
subject Httle Stenne was quite an authority. He
would tell you with an air of conviction that the
band of the Ninety-sixth did not amount to much,
but that of the Fifty-fifth was excellent. When he
was not on the march, he would watch the mobiles
at drill ; and then there were those hours of waiting,
when, his basket under his arm, he joined the long
lines of people forming in front of butchers* and
bakers* shops, in the unlighted streets, in the dull
gray dawn of those winter days. And there, feet in
the water, one stood, and made new acquaintances.
Politics were discussed, and, being the son of
Monsieur Stenne, he was asked his opinion on
every hand. But most amusing of all he found

The Boy Spy. 25

those bouchon ^-games, especially that famous game
of galoche, which the Breton soldiers had made
quite fashionable during the siege. When little
Stenne was not at the rampart or waiting in front
of some baker's shop, you were sure of finding
him watching a game of galoche in the Place du
Chateau-d'Eau. Of course you will understand
that he never played himself; it cost too much
money. He contented himself merely with devour-
ing the players with his eyes.

A big fellow who wore a coat and blue overalls,
and never staked less than a hundred-sou piece,
excited his special admiration. Whenever he ran,
one could hear his money jingling in the depths of
his pockets.

One day, picking up a piece of money which
had rolled directly in front of little Stenne's feet,
this fellow whispered to the little one, —

" That makes you squint, eh? Well, now, if you
like, I can tell you where there are more of them."

And when the game was ended, he led little
Stenne to a corner of the Place, and proposed the
latter should join him in selling newspapers to the
Prussians, thirty francs for each trip they made.
At first little Stenne indignantly refused ; and for
three days in succession he was not seen watching
the game, — three terrible days for him. He nei-
ther ate nor slept. At night he saw great heaps
of galoches lying at the foot of his bed, and the
floor paved with shining lines of hundred-sou

1 Bouchon. A game in which pieces of money are placed upon
a cork, — which is to be knocked over with a quoit.

26 Monday Tales.

pieces ! The temptation was too strong ; and the
fourth day he returned to Chateau-d'Eau, saw the
big fellow again, and allowed himself to be seduced.

They set out one snowy morning, carrying a
canvas bag, their newspapers hidden in their
blouses. They reached the Porte de Flandres just
before daybreak. His companion took Stenne's
hand, and, approaching the sentinel, — a worthy
sedentary, with a red nose and a benevolent air, —
he said in a whining voice, —

" Let us pass, my good sir. Our mother is sick ;
papa is dead. We are going, my little brother and
I, to dig potatoes in the field."

He began to cry. Stenne, feeling very much
ashamed, hung his head. The sentinel looked at
both of them for a moment, then glanced at the
road, white and deserted.

" Pass, but be quick ! " he said, standing aside,
and then they found themselves on the Auber-
villiers road. How the rascal laughed !

Vaguely, as if in a dream, little Stenne saw fac-
tory after factory turned into barracks, deserted
barricades stuffed with mouldy rags, and tall chim-
neys cutting the fog ; but from those chimney tops,
lost in the sky, no smoke ascended, and they were
dented in places. Along the road sentinels were
posted, and muffled ofhcers stood, looking through
their field-glasses ; small tents soaked with melted
snow were pitched in front of the dying fires.
Stenne's companion knew the road well, and took
a cross-cut to avoid passing the guard ; but they
were obliged to pass the advance-guard of sharp-

The Boy Spy. 27

shooters. There they were in their capes, squatted
in the bottom of a watery ditch which ran along
the railroad to Soissons. But this time the big
fellow tried to tell his story all in vain. They were
not allowed to pass. While he was lamenting,
there issued from the gate-keeper's house an old
sergeant, white-haired and wrinkled, who looked
not unlike Father Stenne himself.

"Come, you rascals, don't cry any more," he said
to the boys. " You may go and dig your potatoes,
but first come in and warm yourselves a little ; that
young vagabond there looks as if he were frozen ! "

Alas ! little Stenne was not trembling from cold,
but from fear and shame. Inside they found some
soldiers squatting around a wretched fire ; a
widow's fire it might well have been called, but at
its warmth they were endeavoring to thaw out
their biscuits at the point of their bayonets. They
crowded closer, to make room for the boys, and
gave them a swallow of brandy and some coffee.
While they were drinking, an officer appeared at
the door, called the sergeant, whispered something
in a very low voice, and suddenly disappeared.

*' Boys ! " said the sergeant, returning with a
radiant face, " there '11 be fighting this night ! The
watchword of the Prussians is discovered. This
time I believe we shall recapture that cursed
Bourget."

There was an outburst of bravos and laughter,
dancing and singing and polishing of sword-
bayonets ; taking advantage of the general uproar,
the boys disappeared.

28 Monday Tales,

When they had passed the trench, they came to
the open plain, and at its extremity ran a long
white wall, pierced with loop-holes. Towards this
wall the boys directed their footsteps, stopping at
every step and making believe that they were
gathering potatoes.

*• Let us return. Don't go any further," said
little Stenne, again and again.

The other shrugged his shoulders, and pushed
on without pause.

Suddenly they heard the sharp click of a gun.

" Down ! " said the elder, and dropped to the
ground. He lay at full length, and whistled. An
answering whistle was heard through the snow.
They advanced on all fours. In front of the wall
and level with the ground, appeared a pair of yel-
low mustachios, surmounted by a greasy cap.
Stenne's companion jumped into the trench and
stood by the Prussian's side. " That 's my brother,"
he said, pointing to his companion.

This brother of his was so small that the Prus-
sian burst out laughing as he looked at him, and
was obliged to lift him in his arms to get him as
far as the breach.

On the other side of the wall were huge earth-
works, felled trees, black holes dug in the snow,
and in each hole was a head like the first, with its
yellow mustaches, which quivered with laughter
as the boys passed by. In one spot stood a gar-
dener's house, casemated with tree-trunks. Down-
stairs it was filled with soldiers playing cards and
making soup before a big fire which burned

The Boy Spy. 29

merrily. A savory odor of bacon and cabbage
ascended. How different all this from the sharp-
shooters' bivouac ! Overhead were the officers'
quarters. The sound of a piano was heard. Cham-
pagne flowed freely. When the Parisians entered,
a joyous hurrah greeted them. They distributed
their newspapers. The officers made the boys
drink and talk. The bearing of all these officers
was proud and insolent, but the elder of the boys
amused them with his vulgar wit and street-Arab's
vocabulary. They roared as they repeated his
words after him, rolling delightedly in the mud of
Paris he had brought them.

Little Stenne would have liked to put in a word
here and there, to show them he was no fool, but
something stopped his tongue. Opposite him, apart
from the rest, sat a Prussian who was older, more
serious than the others. He was reading, or seemed
to be, but his eyes never left the two boys. There
was something both tender and reproachful in that
look. Had this man a child of his own at home, a
child of the same age as Stenne, and did his look
say, " I would rather die than see a son of mine
bent on such an errand as this" ?

From the moment those eyes met his, Stenne
felt as if a hand had laid a weight upon his heart
and stopped its beating. To forget his agony, he
began to drink. Soon everything swam about him.
Amid loud bursts of laughter, he could hear in a
dazed fashion what his comrade was saying.
The latter was ridiculing the National Guard ; he
mimicked a muster in the Marais and a night-

30 Monday Tales.

alarm on the ramparts. Then he lowered his voice,
the officers came up closer, and their faces grew
grave. The young wretch was about to warn them
of the intended attack of the sharpshooters.

But now little Stenne roused himself in a fury.
He had suddenly sobered.

'' Stop that ! " he said. '' I won't have it."

The other smiled merely and continued. Before
he had finished, all the officers were standing. One
of them showed the boys the door, saying, —

''Off with you!"

They began to talk among themselves very
rapidly, and in German. The big boy marched
out, proud as a doge, jingling his money. Stenne
followed him, hanging his head. And as he passed
by the Prussian whose glance had disturbed his
peace of mind so greatly, he heard a sad voice
saying, —

" Bas choliy qa. Bas choli!^ ^

Tears sprang to his eyes.

Once on the plain again, the boys began to run,
and their return was rapid. Their bag was full of
potatoes the Prussians had given them, and carry-
ing it they passed the trench where the sharp-
shooters were, without being stopped. The men
wene preparing for the attack of the coming night.
Troops were arriving silently, and forming behind
the walls. The old sergeant was there, busied in
arranging his men. How happy he looked ! As
the boys passed, he recognized them and smiled
kindly.

1 " That was a mean business I a mean business I "

The Boy Spy, 31

Oh, how that smile tortured little Stenne !
For a moment he longed to cry out, " Don't go
there to-night ! We have betrayed you." But
the other had said, *' If you speak, we shall be
shot," and fear kept him silent.

At La Corneuve they went into a deserted house
to share their money. Truth compels me to state
that the division was an honest one, and that when
little Stenne heard all those fine franc-pieces
rattling in his blouse and thought of all those
games of galoche which he saw in the near future,
his crime did not so much appall him.

But when at last the wretched child was alone !
After they had passed the gates and his compan-
ion left him, then his pockets began to grow heavy
indeed. And the hand which had pressed so
heavily upon his heart, pressed more heavily than
ever. And Paris no longer seemed to him the
same Paris. Passers-by seemed to gaze at him
severely, as if they knew whence he came. Even
the sound of carriage-wheels and the flourish of
drums, where the troops were drilling along the
canal, seemed to be saying that one word *' Spy ! "
At last he reached his home, glad to discover that
his father had not yet returned. He ascended
quickly to their chamber, and hid the money which
weighed him down so heavily.

Never had Father Stenne felt more amiably dis-
posed or happier than he did, returning home that
evening. For good news had just come from the
country outside of Paris ; affairs were going better.
And as he ate, the old soldier looked at his gun

32 Monday Tales,

hanging on the wall, and said to the child, with
that charming smile of his, —

" Well, boy ! you should fight the Prussians if
you were old enough ! " Towards eight o'clock the
cannonade began.

" It is at Aubervilliers. They are fighting at
Bourget," said the worthy man, who knew all his
forts well. Little Stenne grew pale, and, pretend-
ing that he was very tired, he went to bed, but he
could not sleep. For the booming of the cannons
never ceased. He pictured to himself the sharp-
shooters, reaching by night the spot where they
were to surprise the Prussians and falling into an
ambuscade themselves. He recalled the sergeant
who had smiled at him, and thought of him lying
out there in the snow, and so many, so many
beside him. And the blood-money was there,
concealed under his pillow; and it was he, the
son of Monsieur Stenne, a soldier who had —
tears choked him. In the side room, he heard
his father pace to and fro. He opened a win-
dow. In the square below, the call to arms
sounded. A battahon of mobiles, about to set
out, were calling their numbers. Yes, this was a
battle in real earnest. The wretched child could
not restrain a sob.

" What ails you ? " asked Father Stenne, entering
the room.

The child could control himself no longer. He
jumped from his bed and would have thrown
himself at his father's feet. But his sudden move-
ment sent the money rolling upon the floor.

The Boy Spy. 33

"What is that? Have you been stealing?"
asked the old man, and he trembled.

Then without pausing to take breath, little
Stenne told him all that had happened in that
visit to the Prussians, and what share he had had
in it. And, by degrees, as he told his story he
seemed to breathe more freely, that silent accuser
in his heart ceased to torture him.

Father Stenne's face, as he listened, was terrible.
When he had heard the last word, he buried his
face in his hands and wept.

" Father, father ! " the child tried to say.

But the old man pushed the boy away from him
without a word, and began to pick up the money.

" Is this all? " he asked.

Little Stenne nodded. The old man took down
his gun and his cartridge-box, and put the money
in his pocket.

" Very well," he said ; " I will return it to them."

And without another word, without looking back
a single time, he descended, and went out into the
night, and mingled with the mobiles who were
leaving. He was never seen again.

34 Monday Tales,

THE MOTHER.
A SOUVENIR OF THE SIEGE.

That morning I had gone to Mont Valerien to

see our artist-friend, Monsieur B , then a Heu-

tenant in the mobile of the Seine. I found that
fine fellow on guard. No way of getting out of it !
And there he was, compelled to pace back and
forth, before the postern of the fort, like a sailor
on watch, while we talked of Paris, of the war, and
of dear ones far away. Suddenly my lieutenant,
who, in spite of his military coat, was as tremendous
a dauber as ever, stapped short in the middle of
his sentence, and caught my arm.

" There 's a fine Daumier ! " he whispered. He
was looking at something out of the corner of one
eye, and that small gray eye of his kindled like a
hunting-dog's, as he pointed to the silhouette of
two venerable figures that had just made their ap-
pearance upon the plateau of Mont Valerien.

And indeed the couple suggested some fine
sketch fresh from Daumier's hand. The man wore
a chestnut-colored surtout, with a collar of greenish
velvet, that looked like old wood-moss ; he was
short and lean and ruddy, with a low forehead,
round eyes, and nose like an owl's beak; his head
was like a shrivelled bird's head, and his air was at

The Mother, 35

once silly and solemn. To complete the picture,
he carried on one arm a bag, embroidered with
flowers, from which protruded the neck of a bottle,
and under the other arm a box of preserves, that
everlasting tin box, which Parisians of those days
will never see again without recalling that five
months' siege of theirs. Of the woman all that one
saw at first was an enormous hood-like bonnet and
an old shawl whose scanty folds wrapped her from
head to foot, revealing all the more plainly the
poverty it attempted to conceal; now and then,
however, the tip of a sharp nose peered out from
the faded ruches of her bonnet, and a few spare
and grizzled locks could be seen.

When they reached the plateau, the man paused
to regain his breath, and to wipe his forehead.
They certainly could not have been too warm in
that foggy, keen November air, but they had
walked very quickly.

The woman never paused, not she ! Advancing
directly towards the postern, she looked at us a
moment, with some hesitation, and as if she would
speak with us; but, doubtless intimidated by an
officer's uniform, she preferred to address the sen-
tinel, and I heard her ask timidly that she might
be allowed to see her son, a Paris mobile in Com-
pany Six, Third Battalion.

" Stay here," said the guard, " and I will call
him."

She gave a joyous sigh of relief, and returned to
her husband, and both s.eated themselves at a short
distance, on the side of a talus.

36 Monday Tales,

They waited there an interminable time. Mont
Valerien is so big, such a complicated affair, with
its various enclosures, its bastions, glacis, barracks,
and casemates ! No easy task to find a mobile of
the Sixth in the mazes of that town suspended be-
tween heaven and earth, hanging its huge spiral
in the midst of the clouds, hke Laputa's island.
Moreover, at that hour from one end to the other
of the fort drums and trumpets are sounding, can-
teens ratthng. The sentry is relieved, duty-service
begins, supplies are distributed ; the sharp-shooters
are bringing in a spy, covered with blood, beating
him with their gun-butts. Some peasant folk of
Nanterre are come to complain to the General ; an
estafette comes galloping in, the man chilled, and
the beast dripping with sweat. Litters arrive from
the outposts with the wounded suspended upon
the backs of mules, and moaning softly like sick
lambs. Sailors are seen hauling a new cannon to
the music of a fife, with cries of " Heave ho ! " A
shepherd in red trousers is driving in before him
the cattle belonging to the fort, a rod in his hand,
his chassepot slung across his shoulder. In the
yards of the fort an incessant coming and going,
men passing one another, and disappearing through
the postern like figures vanishing through the low
door of some caravansary of the East.

" I hope they have not forgotten my boy," the
poor mother's eyes are saying all this time ; and as
the minutes lengthen she rises and discreetly ap-
proaches the entrance, casting a furtive glance
towards the front yard, while she edges along the

The Mother, yi

wall, but she dares not ask any more questions,
lest she should reflect discredit upon her son.
Her companion, more timid even than herself,
does not budge once from the spot where he is
seated ; and when she returns again and again, to
seat herself beside him, her heart swelling, and a
look of deep discouragement visible upon her fea-
tures, it is plain that he is chiding her for her im-
patience, and giving her no end of explanations as
to the exigencies of a soldier's life, information
imparted with the imbecile air of one who would
have you think he knows it all.

I have always regarded with the deepest curiosity
those little domestic scenes enacted amid the ut-
most silence, scenes of whose significance one
often divines more than is actually seen, — in those
pantomimes of the street, which elbow us on every
side during our walks abroad, the merest gesture
often revealing to us the history of a lifetime ; but
what specially charmed me here was the awkward-
ness, the naivet^ of my principal characters, and it
was with real emotion I witnessed all the incidents of
a delightful drama of the hearth, as I followed that
little dumb-show, as expressive and transparent as
the pantomime of two of Seraphin's marionettes.
I seemed to hear the mother remark one fine
morning, " I am sick of this Monsieur Trochu,
and his orders. I have not seen my boy for three
months. I want to see him, to kiss him."

And the father, timorous, with an eternal air of
apology for the fact of his existence, is frightened
at the mere thought of what must be done in order

38 Monday Tales,

to obtain permission to see the son, and at first
attempts to dissuade her. " But, my dear, you
don't stop to think ! Mont Valerien — deuce take
it ! — is a long way off. How could you ever get
there without a carriage? Besides, it is a citadel.
Women are not allowed to enter."

" But — I will enter — " answers the wife ; and as
he obeys all her commands, he undertakes this new
errand. He goes to the Secteur, to the mairie, to
the headquarters of the Army of Paris, to the com-
missary, clammy with fear, shivering with the cold,
knocking at every door, stumbling into the wrong
one again and again, waiting in line two hours be-
fore the office of one department, and that not the
right one. But at last he returns towards evening
with the Governor's permit in his pocket. The
next day they rise very early, and dress in the
cold, by lamp-light. The father nibbles a bit of
bread, to fortify himself, but the mother is not
hungry. She prefers to breakfast later with her
son. And to cheer the poor mobile a httle, they
pile into the bag both the ordinary provisions of
the siege and those reserved for special occasions,
chocolate, sweetmeats, and a bottle of wine ; they
remember everything, even the famous box, an
eight-franc box, which they had laid aside religi-
ously for a day of need. At last they have started.
When they reach the ramparts, and the gates are
opened, they must show their permit. And now it
is the wife's turn to be frightened. But she is re-
assured. The permit, it seems, is quite en regie.

" You may pass," says the adjutant on duty.

The Mother, 39

And not until then does she breathe freely.

" How polite that officer was to us ! "

She toddles on, as agile as a young partridge.
The man can scarcely keep up with her.

" How fast you walk, my dear ! "

But she is not Hstening to him. Above her
Mont Valerien looms against the misty horizon,
and beckons to her.

" Come quickly. He is here ! "

And now they have reached Mont Valerien, a
fresh cause for anxiety. Suppose she should not
find him ! What if he is not coming, after all !

Suddenly I saw her tremble, clutch the old man's
arm, and spring to her feet. In the distance foot-
steps were heard echoing along the vaulted pass-
age, footsteps which she recognized. It was her
son ! When he appeared, the entrance to the fort
was suddenly illumined for her eyes.

And indeed he was a big, splendid fellow, his
bearing erect and vigorous. He came, gun in
hand and knapsack on his back. His greeting was
sincere, as the joyous, virile voice exclaimed, —

" Good-morning, mamma."

And suddenly knapsack, blanket, chassepot, and
all disappeared from sight, and were lost in that
enormous bonnet. Then the father's turn came,
but it did not last so long, for the bonnet wanted
everything for itself. It was insatiable.

" And how are you ? Are you clad warmly
enough? How are you off for linen?"

And beneath the ruches of that bonnet I could
see her eyes, and their prolonged and loving glance

40 Monday Tales.

which embraced him from head to foot, amid a
shower of tears and little laughs and kisses. For
there was an arrearage of three long months due
him, — an arrearage which maternal tenderness
was striving to pay him all at once. The father too
seemed deeply moved, but he did not desire that
any one should suspect the fact. He understood
that we were watching him, and blinked once or
twice in our direction, as if to say, —

*' You must excuse her. She 's a woman."

As if I could excuse her !

But the sound of a bugle interrupted all this joy
unexpectedly.

'' The call ! " said the youth. " I must go."

" What ! You will not take your breakfast with
us?"

" I cannot. I am on duty for the next twenty-
four hours, above, at the fort."

*' Oh ! " said the poor woman, and she was
speechless.

And in consternation each gazed at the other for
a moment. Then the father was spokesman.

'' At least you will take the box," he said in a
heart-broken voice, with an air of gluttony and of
martyrdom which was at once touching and ludi-
crous. But in the agitation and emotion of leave-
taking, that infernal box was nowhere to be found !
It was pathetic to see those feeble and trembling
hands groping for it, and to hear two voices,
broken by sobs, inquiring : * " The box ! Where is
the box?" — evidently considering this petty and
homely detail not unworthy of their great sorrow.

The Mother, 41

But at last the box was found, there was one long,
last embrace, and then the son returned to the fort
on the run.

But recall how far they had come to breakfast
with him, and that it was to have been a great
affair in their lives, that the mother had not slept
one minute the night before, in anticipation of it,
and tell me whether anything could be more pa-
thetic than that little party which never came off,
that momentary glimpse of a paradise whose door
was so suddenly, so brutally, closed against them.

They lingered for some minutes, standing mo-
tionless in the spot where the boy had left them,
their eyes riveted upon the postern through which
he had disappeared from their sight. At length
the man roused himself, and made a move towards
departure. He coughed very courageously two or
three times, and his voice gaining confidence, he
said quite audibly and cheerfully, — •

" Come, mother, let us go." Then he made us
an overwhelming courtesy, and took his wife's arm.
My eyes followed them as far as the turn in the
road. The good man's air was furious. He bran-
dished his bag, and his gestures were full of de-
spair. The mother herself appeared to be calmer.
She walked beside him, her head sunken upon her
breast, her arms at her side. But I fancied that
from time to time the shawl which covered her thin
shoulders rose and fell convulsively.

42 Monday Tales.

®

THE SIEGE OF BERLIN.

We ascended the Avenue des Champs filysees

with Doctor V- , reading, upon those walls

pierced with shells and sidewalks dug up with
grapeshot, the story of the Siege of Paris. Just
before we reached the Rondpoint de I'Etoile, the
Doctor paused, and pointing out to me one of
those great corner-houses which face the Arc de
Triomphe with such a pompous air, he said, —

" Do you see those four closed windows up there
over the balcony? In the early part of the month
of August of last year, that awful month full of
storm and disaster, I was summoned to that apart-
ment to attend a severe case of apoplexy. My
patient was Colonel Jouve, an old cuirassier of the ,
First Empire. Love of country was his ruling
passion, and his mistress was Glory. At the be-
ginning of the war he had taken up quarters in
the Champs Elysees in that apartment with the
balcony. Do you guess why? That he might
witness the triumphal re-entry of our troops. Poor
old man ! The news of Wissembourg reached his
ears just as he was rising from table. He saw the
name of Napoleon at the end of that bulletin of
defeat, and the sudden shock prostrated him.

** When I reached the old cuirassier, he was
stretched at full length upon the carpet of his

The Siege of Berlin, 43

room. His face gave no signs of life, but it was
bleeding as if he had received a tremendous blow
upon the head. Standing he must have presented
an imposing figure. As he lay there, he looked
like a giant. His features were so noble, his sil-
very locks curled so thickly, he had such splendid
teeth, that this octogenarian looked scarcely more
than sixty years of age. Near him knelt his grand-
daughter in tears. She resembled him strongly.
The sight of both together suggested two beauti-
ful Greek medals struck from the same impression ;
but one was old and dull, its outlines somewhat
worn, while the other was bright and clear-cut,
having all the smoothness and brilliancy of a first
impression.

** The child's grief touched me. Her grandfather
had been a soldier. Her father too was a soldier,
an officer of MacMahon's staff; and at sight of this
stately old hero prostrate, my imagination pictured
a scene not less terrible. I did my best to reassure
her, but at heart I felt no hope. We had to deal
with a severe case of hemiplegia, and at eighty
recovery is extremely doubtful. And, in fact, for
three days the sick man never rallied from the
stupor in which I had found him. Meanwhile news
of the battle Reichshoffen had just reached Paris.
You will remember how strangely we were deceived.
Until evening we all believed a great victory had
been gained, twenty thousand Prussians slain, the
prince royal a prisoner. Through some agency
scarcely less than miraculous, some echo of the
nation's joy must have reached the patient, deaf

44 Monday Tales,

and dumb though he was, some magnetic current
must have penetrated even that paralyzed frame,
for that evening, when I approached his bedside, I
saw that he was a new man. His eye was clear
almost, his tongue no longer thick. He was able
to smile, and twice he stammered ' Vic-to-ry ! '

" ' Yes, colonel, a great victory ! '

" And as I acquainted him with the details of
MacMahon's glorious success, his features relaxed,
his face brightened.

" As I was about to leave the apartment, I found
the young girl waiting for me. She was weeping.
* But he is out of danger ! ' I said, taking her
hands in mine.

" The unhappy child scarcely ventured a reply.
The bulletins had just announced the true story of
Reichshoffen. MacMahon was retreating, the
army cut to pieces. Our eyes could not conceal
the consternation both felt. The child was heart-
broken. She was thinking of her father. But I
trembled at thought of the old man. Surely he
could not survive this fresh shock. But what should
we do? Leave him to enjoy that happiness, those
illusions which had breathed new life into him?
But in that case we must feed him upon lies.
' Very well, I will lie to him ! ' said the young
heroine, quickly drying her eyes, and her face was
wreathed in smiles when she returned to her
grandfather's chamber.

" She had undertaken no light task. During the
first days it was not so difficult a matter, for the
good man's head was very weak, and he was as

The Siege of Berlin. 45

easily deceived as a child. But as health returned,
his ideas grew clearer. It was necessary to keep
him informed of the movement of the various
armies, and to manufacture military bulletins for
him. And it was truly pitiable to see that lovely
child buried night and day in a map of Germany,
pinning tiny flags upon it, endeavoring to invent
the details of a glorious campaign. Bazaine had
advanced upon Berlin, Froissart was in Bavaria,
MacMahon on the Baltic ! Sometimes she con-
sulted me, and I aided her as far as I could, but in
carrying out this imaginary invasion no one ren-
dered us greater assistance than the grandfather
himself. He had conquered Germany so many
times during the First Empire ! He knew every
move in advance. * This is where they will go
next ! ' * This will be their next move,' he would
say; and his anticipations never failing to prove
themselves correct, he took not a little pride in
them.

" ' But, alas ! to no avail did we take cities, win
battles. We did not move rapidly enough to suit
him. That old man was simply insatiable. Every
day I visited him I heard news of some fresh
exploit.

" '■ Doctor, we have taken Mayence,' said the
young girl, advancing towards me with a heart-
rending smile, and through the door I heard a
joyous voice exclaiming, ' We move ! we move !
in a week more we shall enter Berlin.'

" As a matter of fact, the Prussians would reach
Paris in another week. We asked ourselves at

46 Monday Tales.

first whether it would not be better to remove our
patient from the city, but, once outside of Paris,
the condition of France would have told him all ;
moreover, he was too weak, too much benumbed
from the effect of the first shock, to learn the truth
then. It was decided to remain.

'' The first day of the investment of the city, I
climbed up to my patient's apartment. Well I
remember that day ! My heart was heavy, full of
anguish. For the gates of Paris were closed, the
enemy under her very walls, and even her out-
skirts converted into frontiers. I found the in-
genuous old man sitting up in bed, proud and
jubilant.

" ' Well,' he said, * at last the siege has begun ! '

*' Hooked at him; I was stunned. * Why, colonel,'
I asked, ' how do you know that?'

*' His granddaughter glanced in my direction.

*' * Oh, yes, doctor ; this is great news ! The
siege of Berlin has begun.'

" And as she spoke, she plied her needle with a
little affectation of composure. How should he
suspect anything? Though the cannons were fir-
ing from the forts, he could not hear them. And
although unhappy Paris was turned upside down,
and filled with gloom and forebodings, he saw
nothing of it all. But where he lay, he could get
a glimpse of the Arc de Triomphe, and his chamber
was filled with bric-a-brac of the First Empire, ad-
mirably fitted to nourish his illusions. Portraits
of marshals were there, engravings of battles;
there was a picture of the King of Rome in baby

The Siege of Berlin, 47

robes. There were tall, stiff consoles ornamented
with trophied brass, and loaded with imperial
relics, medallions, bronzes ; there was a bit of the
rock of St. Helena under a glass globe ; there were
numerous miniatures always representing the same
lady, in ball-room costume, in a yellow robe with
leg-of-mutton sleeves, a pair of bright eyes glanc-
ing from beneath her carefully curled locks.

" All these ornaments, the King of Rome, the mar-
shals, the yellow ladies, those short-waisted, high-
girdled figures whose stiff and artificial lines were
considered the very embodiment of grace in 1806 —
gallant colonel ! — it was such things as those, it
was that atmosphere of victory and conquest, which,
far more than any words of ours, made him accept
the story of the siege of Berlin with such childlike
simplicity.

** From that day, our military operations were far
less complex. To take Berlin was simply a ques-
tion of patience. From time to time, when the old
man grew weary of waiting, we would read him a
letter from his son, of course, an imaginary letter,
for Paris was cut off from the outer world then, and,
besides, since the battle of Sedan, MacMahon's
aide-de-camp was confined in a German fortress.
You may imagine that poor child's despair, living
from day to day with no news of her father, but
knowing that he was a prisoner, deprived of every-
thing, sick, perhaps, — imagine her agony knowing
all this, but compelled to speak for him, to invent
such joyous epistles in his behalf, a trifle brief,
perhaps, but the brevity of a soldier in the field,

48 Monday Tales,

who answers his country's cry, ' Forward ! ' and
sees her arms everywhere victorious. Sometimes
she had not the heart for these letters, and then
weeks passed without news. But the old man
would grow restless and could not sleep. Then a
letter would at once arrive from Germany, and she
would read it gayly at his bedside, repressing her
tears. The colonel always listened religiously,
with a very wise air ; he approved, criticised, ex-
plained to us here and there a passage which
seemed slightly obscure. But his finest efforts
were replies he sent his son. * Never forget that
you are a Frenchman,' he would say. ' Be gen-
erous to these poor people. Invade their country,
but not as an oppressor.' Then followed sugges-
tions without end, delightful twaddle concerning a
right observance of propriety, and what constituted
courtesy towards women, — in short, a whole mili-
tary code for the guidance of these conquerors ; he
added some reflections upon politics in general,
and outlined the conditions of peace which must
be imposed upon the vanquished. I must add that,
as regards the last subject, his demands were not
severe.

" ' A war indemnity, only that ; what good would
it do to seize their provinces? A France could
never be made out of Germany ! '

" He dictated these words with a steady voice,
with such candor, and such noble faith in his
country, that it was impossible to listen to him
unmoved.

" And all the while the siege was progressing, not,

The Siege of Berlin, 49

alas ! that of Berlin. There were days of severe
cold, of bombardment, of epidemics and famine.
But, thanks to our cares, our efforts, and all those
proofs of indefatigable tenderness which were mul-
tipHed about him, the old man never felt a moment's
anxiety. To the very end I was able to obtain
white bread and fresh meat for him. Of course
there was none for any one else, and you cannot
imagine anything more touching than this grand-
father's breakfasts of which he partook with such
innocent egotism, the old man sitting up in bed,
fresh and smiling, his napkin under his chin, the
granddaughter ever at his side, her pale face re-
vealing the privation she had suffered ; she guided
his hands, compelled him to drink, aided him as
he ate all the good things saved specially for him.
Enlivened by his repast, enjoying the comfort of
his warm chamber while the cold winter wind blew
without, and the snow whirled about his windows,
the aged cuirassier would recall his campaigns in
the North and related to us for the hundredth
time the tale of that mournful retreat from Moscow,
when there was no other food than frozen biscuit
and horse-flesh.

'"Do you know what that means, child? We
ate horse-flesh ! ' I think she understood perfectly.
She had been eating no other meat for two months.
From day to day, as convalescence approached,
the patient began to make our task a more difficult
one. That lethargy of all his senses, of all his
hmbs, had aided us up to this time, but was begin-
ning to leave him. Several times those terrible

4

50 Monday Tales,

volleys from the Porte Maillot made him start sud-
denly, his ear as alert as a hound's : we were
obliged to invent a final victory for Bazaine before
Berlin, and to explain that the salutes in front of
Les Invalides were in honor of the event. Another
day, when we had pushed his bed close to the winr
dow, I think it was the Thursday the battle of Bu-
zenval occurred, he saw the National Guard quite
distinctly as it formed in front of the Avenue de la
Grande Arm^e.

*'*What troops are those?' asked our colonel,
and we heard him mutter to himself, —

*' * Badly drilled ! badly drilled ! '

" Nothing came of this incident, but we realized
that it now behooved us to take greater precautions
than before. Unfortunately we were not cautious
enough.

'' One evening on my arrival, the child came to
me, her face full of anxiety.

" * To-morrow they enter,' she said.

"Was the door of the grandfather's room ajar?
I do remember, and have often thought in recalling
that evening, that his features wore an unusual ex-
pression. It is very likely that he had heard what
we were saying. But we were speaking of the
Prussians, and he was thinking of the French army,
and of that triumphal entry he had been expecting
for many a day, — MacMahon descending the
avenue to martial music, along a path strewn with
flowers, his son at the marshal's side, and there
upori the balcony, the old warrior himself in full
uniform, as upon the field of Lutzen, saluting the

\ The Siege of Berlin. 51

flags that had many a rent in them, and our eagles
blackened with powder.

" Poor Father Jouve ! Doubtless he fancied we
would not permit him to assist at that entry of
our troops, an;cious to spare him the excitement
of so great an event. For he said nothing to any
one, but the following day, just at the hour when
the Prussians advanced somewhat timidly upon the
long avenue leading from the Porte Maillot to the
Tuileries, an upper window opened softly, and
the colonel himself appeared upon the balcony,
wearing his helmet, his long cavalry sword, and all
the antiquated but glorious toggery of an old
cuirassier of Milhaud. I still ask myself what
tremendous effort of his will, what sudden start of
life, had put him on his feet again, and in all his
war trappings. But one fact is certain. There he
stood upon the balcony, amazed to find the avenue
so wide and still, the blinds of the houses closed, and
Paris itself as gloomy as a vast lazaretto, flags every-
where, but strangely enough, only white flags with
red crosses, and no one to meet our soldiers.

" For a moment he must have believed he had
made a mistake, — but, no ! yonder, behind the Arc
de Triomphe, issued an indistinct rattle, a black
line advanced steadily into the morning light.
Then by degrees the tops of helmets could be seen
flashing in the sunlight, and the drums of Jena
began to beat. And then beneath the Arc de
I'Etoile, accented by the rhythmic tramp of the
regiments and the clashing of sabres, resounded
the strains of Schubert's triumphal march.

52 Monday Tales,

"■ Then through the dismal silence of the place
was heard an awful cry, * To arms ! to arms ! the
Prussians ! ' and the four uhlans of the advance-
guard, looking towards the balcony above, could
see the majestic figure of an old man reeling, his
arms outstretched. He fell heavily. This time the
shock had indeed proved fatal. Colonel Jouve
was dead."

A Renegade Zouave, 53

A RENEGADE ZOUAVE.

That evening the big blacksmith Lory of Sainte-
Marie-aux-Mines was not in the best of humors.
Usually after the forge-fire was out, and the sun
had set, he would sit upon a bench before his
doorway, tasting all the delight of that weariness
which comes to one who has borne the heat and
burden of the day. And before dismissing his
apprentices, he would linger with them for a few
draughts of fresh beer, watching the people going
home from the factories. But this evening the
worthy smith remained in his shop until meal-time,
and then he seemed reluctant to go. His good
old wife thought as she looked at him, "What ails
him? Has he received some bad news he is un-
willing to tell me, from the regiment? Perhaps
our oldest is ill." But she did not venture to ask
any questions, and confined all her efforts to quiet-
ing three little laughing, fair-haired lads with locks
the color of ripened wheat, who were crunching a
fine salad of black radishes and cream.

At length the blacksmith pushed away his plate
angrily.

" Oh, what beggarly knaves, what scoundrels
they are ! "

" Whom do you mean, tell us, Lory?"

54 Monday Tales,

"Whom do I mean?" he exclaimed. "Five or
six vagabonds who straggled into the town this
morning, wearing the uniforms of French soldiers,
but hand in glove with the Bavarians : some of
that mob which has — what do they call it? —
declared in favor of Prussia; and to think that
every day will witness the return of more of these
false Alsatians ! What do you suppose they gave
them to drink? "

The mother attempted a defence.

" What would you have, my poor man? These
boys are not so much to blame. Away in Algeria,
in Africa, they are so far from home that they
grow sick for a sight of it. The temptation to
return, to give up a soldier's life, is too strong for
them."

Lory's fist descended heavily upon the table.

" No more, mother ! You women do not know
what you are talking about. So much of your life
is spent among children, and for them alone, that
you come to see all things through the eyes of
your puppets. But I tell you, those men we saw
this morning are knaves, renegades, cowards of the
worst sort; and if in an evil hour our Christian
could be capable of such infamy as theirs, as sure
as my name is George Lory, and I was for seven
years a chasseur in the service of France, I would
run him through the body with my sabre."

Partly risen from his chair, the blacksmith
pointed with a terrible glance to his long cavalry
sword, hanging upon the wall under his son's pic-
ture, the portrait of a zouave, done in Africa.

A Renegade Zouave. 55

But as he looked at that honest Alsatian face, dark
and sunburnt, viewed in the strong relief which is
shown when vivid colors are seen in a strong light,
suddenly he grew calm.

" I am foolish to work myself into a passion !
As if our Christian could dream of becoming a
Prussian, — he who has killed so many of them dur-
ing the war."

Restored to good humor by this thought, the
worthy man finished his meal with a light heart,
and set forth at once for the Ville de Strasbourg,
to empty a pot or two of beer.

The old wife was alone. She put the little ones
to bed, while they chirped like a nestful of birds
going to rest, and then she took her darning, and
seated herself before the door leading to the gar-
den. She sighed from time to time, and thought
to herself, —

" Oh, yes ; that is all true enough. They are
cowards, renegades. All the same, their mothers
must be glad enough to see them again."

And she recalled the time when her boy, before he
left for the army, stood in that little garden, tending
it, at that very hour. She looked at the well where
he had refilled his watering-pots, — that boy in the
blouse and long locks, those locks which had to be
cut when he entered the ranks of tht zouaves.

Suddenly she trembles. The httle back door
that leads to the fields is opened.

The dogs do not bark, though the new-comer
steals along the walls, among the beehives, like a
robber.

56 Monday Tales,

*' Good-day, mamma ! "

Her Christian himself stands before her, shame-
faced, confused ; his tongue is thick, his uniform
disordered.

The miserable creature has come with the others,
and for a whole hour he has been prowling about,
waiting for his father to leave the house, that he
might enter it. She would chide him, but has
not the heart. It is such a long while since she
saw him, embraced him last. And then he has so
many and such excellent reasons to give for re-
turning, — he longed for home, for the forge, was
weary of living so far away from his people ; the
discipline grew severer every day, and the others
nicknamed him " Prussian ! " because of his Alsa-
tian accent. Of course she believes everything he
says. How can she help it when she looks in his
face ? . They continue to talk, as they enter the
house.

The little ones are awake by this time, and, bare-
footed, in their night-shirts, they patter into the
room, eager to welcome their big brother ! He
must eat something, but, no, he is not hungry.
His thirst, however, knows no end ; he has been
drinking in the pothouse since morning, treated to
round upon round of beer and white wine, and now
he washes it all down with great gulps of water.

But a step is heard in the yard. The blacksmith
is returning.

'' Christian, it is your father ! Quick, hide, until
I have had time to speak to him, to explain ! "

And she pushes him behind the tall porcelain

A Renegade Zouave, 57

stove, and then turns to her sewing again with
trembling hands. But, unfortunately, his zouave's
cap is still upon the table, and that is the first ob-
ject Lory's eyes meet as he enters. He observes,
too, the mother's embarrassment, her pale face, and
he understands everything.

" Christian is here ! " he says ; and the tone of
his voice strikes terror to their hearts. He seizes
his sabre with the gesture of a maniac, and rushes
towards the stove behind which the zouave cowers,
a ghastly figure, suddenly sobered, but leaning
against the wall, lest he should fall.

The mother throws herself between them.

" Lory, Lory, do not kill him ! It is my fault.
I wrote him to return, wrote him that you needed
him in the forge."

She clings to his arm and drags herself along,
sobbing. In the darkness of their chamber the
children hear sobs and angry words ; these voices,
overcome with emotion, they no longer recognize,
and they too begin to cry. Suddenly the black-
smith pauses, and looks at his wife.

" Then he returned because you made him !
Very well ! Let him get to bed. To-morrow I
will consider what shall be done."

On awaking the next morning from a heavy
slumber, full of nightmare and baseless terrors,
Christian finds himself in the very chamber he oc-
cupied in childhood. The flowering hop-vines,
climbing along the tiny leaden-framed panes of his
window, shut out some of the daylight, but the sun
is warm, for already it is high in the heavens.

58 Monday Tales,

Below, the anvils are ringing. At the head of his
bed sits his mother. Through the long night, she
has not quitted his side one moment, for her hus-
band's wrath has made her fear. And the old
man himself has not slept. Till daybreak his foot-
steps are heard through the house ; he opens and
closes one closet after another, weeping and sigh-
ing. And now he enters his son's room. His face
is stern. It seems that he is dressed for a journey.
He wears a tall hat and long gaiters ; he carries a
thick mountain-staff tipped with iron. He pro-
ceeds at once to the bed where his son Hes, saying,
" Come, rise ! It is time to get up ! "

The youth, a trifle confused, is about to put on
his Zouave trappings.

" Oh, no, not those ! " the father says severely.

The mother, all apprehension, replies, *' But, my
friend, he has no others to wear."

*' Give him some of mine. I shall not need them
any more."

And as his son dresses, Lory carefully folds the
uniform, the big red trousers, the short jacket,
and having made a bundle of them, he passes about
his neck the tin box which contains his soldier's-
papers.

"■ And now let us go down," he says. Then the
three descend into the blacksmith's shop. No
word is spoken. As they enter, they hear the
bellows blowing. Every one is at work. And as
he sees that open shed which he had so often
recalled while he was far away, the Zouave remem-
bers his childhood, and how he played there many

A Renegade Zouave, 59

an hour in the heat of the road, and how the
sparks glittered against the black, powdery dust of
the forge. Sudden tenderness fills his heart. He
longs for his father's forgiveness, but the look which
meets his is inexorable.

And now the smith finds words.

" Boy," he says, " the forge and the tools are
yours. And that too," he adds, pointing to the
little garden in the rear, which is seen from the
smoke-blackened door, bathed in sunshine, and
swarming with bees.

" The hives, the vines, the house, all belong to
you. Since it was for these things you sacrificed
your honor, you will at least look after them. You
are master here now. I go. You owe France five
years more of service. I will pay your debt."

"Lory, Lory, where are you going?" cries the
poor wife.

" Father ! " exclaims the son, his voice full of
entreaty. But the blacksmith is gone while they
are speaking. He strides out of sight without one
glance backward.

At Sidi-bel-Abbes, where the Third Regiment of
Zouaves is stationed, there enlisted some days ago
a volunteer aged fifty-five years.

6o Monday Tales.

THE CLOCK OF BOUGIVAL.

FROM BOUGIVAL TO MUNICH.

It was a clock of the Second Empire, one of
those timepieces in Algerian onyx, ornamented with
Campana designs, — such a clock as may be pur-
chased on the Boulevard des Italiens, its tiny gilt
key dangling crosswise at the end of a pink ribbon.
A genuine Parisian novelty, the frailest, daintiest,
most modern of things, — a real opera boufife clock,
chiming with a charming silvery sweetness, but
possessing not one least grain of common-sense,
and full of caprices and crotchets, striking the
hours after an impossible fashion of its own, skip-
ping the half-hours, just knowing enough to an-
nounce for Monsieur the hour when he must go to
the Bourse, and for Madame the propitious, eagerly
awaited moment. When the war broke out, this
timepiece was rusticating at Bougival, created
especially for one of those fragile summer-palaces,
those butterfly cages, with paper frills, — migratory
establishments that are not meant to outlast a
season, but adorned with lace, muslin, and light
silken transparencies. After the arrival of the
Bavarians it was one of the first prizes to be carried
off, and really it must be acknowledged that
these people from over the Rhine had no little

The Clock of Bougival, 6i

skill at packing, for that plaything of a clock,
scarcely bigger than a turtle-dove's ^g'g, was able
to make that journey from Bougival to Munich, in
the midst of Krupp guns and carts loaded with
grapeshot, arriving safe and sound, and on the
very next day showed its face in the shop-window
of Augustus Cahn, dealer in curiosities, Odeon-
Platz, as fresh, as coquettish as ever, with its two
delicate hands black and curved as two eyelashes,
and its gilt key still dangling crosswise at the end of
a new ribbon.

THE ILLUSTRIOUS DOCTOR-PROFESSOR OTTO
VON SCHWANTHALER.

This arrival was an event for Munich. No one
there had ever seen a Bougival clock before ; every
one came to look at it, regarding it with as much
curiosity as the Japanese shells in the Siebold
museum afforded. In front of Augustus Cahn's
store spectators stood three rows deep, smoking
their pipes from morning till night, and the good
people of Munich, their eyes bulging out of their
heads, asked each other with many an astounded
'* Mcin Gott .'" to what use this singular little ma-
chine might be put. Illustrated journals printed
pictures of it. Its photograph was in every window,
and in its honor did the illustrious Doctor-Professor
Otto von Schwanthaler compose his famous Paradox
tipon ClockSy a philosophico-humoristic study of six

62 Monday Tales.

hundred pages, which treats of the influence of
clocks upon the character of various nationahties,
and logically demonstrates that a nation so sense-
less as to regulate the employment of its time by
such erratic chronometers as that clock of Bougival,
could no more expect to escape every sort of
catastrophe than a ship which should put to sea
with its compass gone astray. (The phrase is a
trifle long, but I have translated it literally.)

Once engaged upon an investigation, the
Germans do not trifle with it, and before writing
his Paradox, the illustrious Doctor-Professor was
anxious to have the subject of his researches under
his eyes, that he might study it thoroughly, and
analyze it to the minutest details, with the zeal of
an entomologist; and so he purchased the clock,
and that explains how it passed from Augustus
Cahn's store into the salon of the illustrious Doctor-
Professor Otto von Schwanthaler, custodian of the
Pinakothek, and member of the Academy of
Sciences and Fine Arts, and was installed in his
private residence, 24 Ludwigstrasse.

THE SCHWANTHALER SALON.

That which one was sure to observe first of all
in entering the Schwanthaler salon, solemn and
academic as a conference-hall, was a tali marble
clock, severely classic in detail, but having a bronze
Polymnia, and extremely complicated machinery.

The Clock of Boiigival. 63

Its large face encircled a number of smaller ones ;
the hours, the minutes, and the seasons were rep-
resented ; the equinoxes and even the phases of
the moon could be seen in a bright blue cloud on
the base of this timepiece, in the centre. The
sound of this mighty machine filled the whole
house. Even at the foot of the stairs, its pendulum
could be heard, swinging ponderously to and fro,
with solemn emphasis, seeming to measure and
divide life itself into fragments of equal length.
Through that sonorous tick-tock throbbed the
vibrations of the hand which marked the seconds,
as it went round and round its face, with the fever-
ish energy of a spider fully aware of the value of
time.

Then the hour would strike sadly and slowly as a
college-clock, and its striking always announced
some event in the Schwanthaler household. At
that precise moment Herr von Schwanthaler set
out for the Pinakothek, loaded with papers, or his
honored lady had just returned from a sermon with
her daughters, three lank, much-befrilled girls, who
looked Hke hop-poles ; sometimes the clock an-
nounced that it was time for the dancing-lesson,
the zither lesson, or for gymnastics ; prompt on
the hour, the piano was opened, the embroidery-
f.ame brought forth, or music-stands were rolled
iato the salon, and ensemble-music began; and
every act of this household was so methodical,
orderly, and well-regulated that the spectator who
observed all these Schwanthalers set in motion on
the exact stroke of the clock, coming in or going

64 Monday Tales, '

out through the opened folding-doors, might have
fancied he saw before him that procession of the
Apostles in the Clock of Strasbourg, might have
expected that upon the last stroke the entire
Schwanthaler family would re-enter and disappear
forever in their clock.

SINGULAR INFLUENCE OF THE BOUGIVAL

CLOCK UPON AN HONEST FAMILY OF

MUNICH.

Now it was beside that monument they placed
the clock from Bougival, and you can easily imagine
the effect that saucy bit of fragile finery produced !
One evening, as the Schwanthaler ladies were busied
with their embroidery in the large salon, and the
illustrious Doctor- Professor was reading to some of
his colleagues of the Academy of Sciences the first
pages of the Paradox, pausing from time to time
to lift the little clock and to make, as it were, a
blackboard demonstration concerning it, suddenly
Eva von Schwanthaler, impelled by I know not
what accursed curiosity, said to her father, blushing
slightly, —

" O papa, make it ring ! "

The doctor detached the key, turned it twice,
and a crystalline sound was heard, so silvery, clear,
and bright that a sudden quiver of gaiety passed
through that solemn assemblage. All eyes
sparkled.

The Clock of BoMgival. 65

" Is n't it pretty, is n't it pretty? " exclaimed the
young ladies, tossing their braids with such a lively
little air that one could scarcely recognize them.

Then Herr von Schwanthaler observed trium-
phantly, —

" Look at that crazy little French clock ! It has
just struck eight, and the hour-hand is at three."

Every one laughed at this, and notwithstanding
the lateness of the hour, the gentlemen plunged
into philosophical theories and interminable re-
flections upon the frivolity of the French people.
Every one forgot that it was time to go home, deaf
even to Polymnia's dial announcing ominously that
it was ten o'clock, the hour which ordinarily dis-
persed the assembled guests. The great clock
could not understand what it all meant. Never
before had it seen such hilarity in the Schwan-
thaler residence ; never had it seen people linger-
ing so late in the salon. And, shocking to relate,
when the Misses Schwanthaler had retired to their
room, they had sat up so late, and laughed so
much, that they felt a hollow, empty sensation in
the stomach, as if they were really hungry, and
the sentimental Minna herself, with arms out-
stretched, exclaimed, —

" Ah, I believe I could eat a lobster-claw ! "

"LET US BE GAY, CHILDREN, LET US BE
GAY ! »

Once it was wound up, the Bougival clock fell
into its old, irregular life, its habits of dissipation.

5

66 Monday Tales,

They had begun by laughing at its crotchets, but
by degrees, growing accustomed to that charming
chime, which sounded according to caprice and
never told the right time, the serious Schwanthaler
family lost all regard for time, and spent their days
with delightful unconcern. They thought now of
nothing but amusement. Human hfe seemed so
short, since they no longer kept run of the hours.
Everything was turned upside down. No more
sermons, no more studies ! They felt the need of
excitement, of stir. Mendelssohn and Schumann
had grown too monotonous, and were replaced with
La Grande Duchesse, and Le Petit Faust, and the
Frauleins strummed and strummed and danced,
while even the illustrious Doctor-Professor, seized
with a sort of vertigo, was able only to say, " Let
us be gay, children, let us be gay ! " As for the
big clock, it was a thing of the past. The young
ladies had stopped the pendulum, pretending that
it kept them from sleeping, and the household was
run according to the caprice of that timepiece
which struck one hour when it marked another.

And then appeared the famous Paradox upon
Clocks. On this occasion the Schwanthalers gave
a great soir6e, not one of those academic evenings
such as they once enjoyed, quiet, and not too bril-
liant, but a magnificent masquerade-ball, at which
Frau von Schwanthaler and her three daughters
appeared as canotihes of Bougival, bare-armed
and in short skirts and tiny hats with gaudy rib-
bons. All this was soon the talk of the town, but
it was merely the beginning. Tableaux-vivants,

The Clock of BougivaL 67

late suppers and baccarat, — scandalized Munich
witnessed one thing after another that winter in
the academician's salon. " Let us be gay, chil-
dren, let us be gay ! " repeated the poor man,
utterly distracted, and, indeed, they were all ex-
tremely gay. Frau von Schwanthaler, become
fashionable since her success as a canotierey passed
her days upon the Isar, wearing extravagant cos-
tumes. Her daughters, left at home, took French
lessons of some hussar officers imprisoned in the
city, and the little clock, having every reason for
believing itself still at Bougival, continued to ring
at random, always striking eight when the hand
stood at three. At last, one morning, this mad
whirl of folly carried off the entire Schwanthaler
family to America, and the finest Titians of the
Pinakothek followed their illustrious custodian in
his flight.

CONCLUSION.

After the departure of the Schwanthalers, a
perfect epidemic of scandals broke out in Munich.
First, a canoness eloped with a baritone ; the Dean
of the Institute wedded a ballet-dancisr ; an Aulic
councillor was caught cheating at cards; and the
convent established for noble women was closed
because of a nocturnal disturbance.

Oh, depravity of inanimate things ! It would
seem that this little clock had some magic power,
and that it had resolved to bewitch all Bavaria.
Wherever it went, wherever that giddy but charm-

6S Monday Tales.

ing little chime sounded, it distracted people, turned
their heads. At last, passing from one place to
another, it took up its abode in the Royal Resi-
dence. And since that day, do you know the
name of that score which lies, always open, upon
the piano of King Louis, the rabid Wagnerian?

'' Die Meister Sanger f "

*' No ! Le Phoque a ventre hlanc! Just the
thing to teach them how to use our clocks ! "

The Defence of Tarascon. 69

THE DEFENCE OF TARASCON.

God be praised ! at last, news of Tarascon !
For five months I have merely existed, such was
my state of suspense ! Knowing the exaltation of
that good town, knowing the bellicose humor of its
inhabitants, I said to myself again and again. Who
can tell what Tarascon has been doing? May it
not have rushed in a body upon the barbarians,
been bombarded like Strasbourg, burned alive like
Chateaudun? Perhaps, hke Paris, it is dying of
hunger ! Perhaps, like Laon and its intrepid cita-
del, it has been blown up in a savage paroxysm of
patriotism. None of these things, my friends.
Tarascon has not been burned, Tarascon is not
blown up ! Tarascon is where it has always been,
its peaceful site surrounded by vineyards, the glad
sunshine flooding its streets, its cellars full of fine
Muscat, and the Rhone, which bathes that amiable
locality, bears to the sea, as of old, the image of a
prosperous town; and on the river's shining sur-
face may still be seen the reflection of green blinds,
and well-raked gardens, and militia, in new coats,
drilling all along the quay.

But do not suppose for a moment that Tarascon
has been sitting with hands folded during the war.
On the contrary, it has behaved admirably, and its

70 Monday Tales,

heroic resistance, which I shall attempt to describe
to you, deserves its place in history as a type of
local resistance, a Hving symbol of the defence of
the South!

THE SINGING-SOCIETIES.

I WILL admit that, until Sedan was fought, our
gallant Tarasconians stayed at home, and their sen-
timents were quite peaceful. These proud sons of
the Alpilles never considered that possibly the
Fatherland had received its death-blow on this
battlefield. It was the Empire, and the Emperor's
soldiers that were perishing. But once the Fourth
of September had come and the Republic, with
Attila encamped about Paris, ah ! then it was that
Tarascon awoke, and perceived this was naught
else than a national war ! Of course it began with
a demonstration on the part of the Singing-Socie-
ties. You know what a passion for music they
have in the South. At Tarascon especially it be-
comes a perfect frenzy. In the streets, as you pass,
all the windows are singing at you, and every
balcony drops romantic lays upon your head !

No matter what shop you enter, at the desk there
is always a guitar sighing, and even the apothe-
cary's boys, as they serve you, whistle " The Night-
ingale," and " The Spanish Lute " — Tra la la! la
la la! And, as if these private concerts were not
enough, the Tarasconese have also a town brass
band, a college band, and I dare not say how many
singing-societies.

The Defence of Tarascon. 71

It was Saint Christopher's singing-society and
its admirable three-part chorus, '' On, to save
France ! " which struck the first note of the national
movement.

" Yes, yes ! — On to save France ! " cried the
worthy Tarasconian, and handkerchiefs were waved
from the windows, and men clapped their hands,
and women threw kisses to the harmonious
phalanx, which paraded the Esplanade, marching
four rows deep, keeping step proudly, a banner at
its head. An impetus had been given to the move-
ment. From that day no more barcarolles, no
more pensive sighing of guitars. Everywhere
** The Spanish Lute " yielded to "The Marseillaise,"
and twice every week people were almost smoth-
ered upon the Esplanade, where they gathered to
listen to the college band playing the Chant du
Depart. Fabulous prices were paid for seats.

But the Tarasconese did not stop at that.

THE CAVALCADES.

After the demonstration of the singing-socie-
ties, there were historical cavalcades for the benefit
of the wounded. What more pleasing sight than
that presented upon a bright Sabbath-day, when
all the valorous youth of Tarascon might be seen,
in hunting-boots and light tights, soliciting con-
tributions from door to door, and caracoling under
the balconies, armed with halberds and butterfly-
nets ! But finest of all was a patriotic tournament,

72 Mo7iday Tales,

— Francis I. at the battle of Pavia. This was held
thrice in succession on the Esplanade by the gentle-
men of the Club. He who missed that sight has not
lived ! The Marseilles Theatre loaned the costumes.
Gold and silk and velvet, embroidered standards,
shields and helmets, caparisons, ribbons, bow-knots,
rosettes, lance-heads, and breastplates, made the
Esplanade flash and glitter like a mirror for entic-
ing larks. And then a strong, sudden breath of the
Mistral, which handled all this splendor some-
what roughly. It was indeed a magnificent sight.
But, unfortunately, when, after a fierce contest,
Francis L — Monsieur Bompard, director of the
Club — found that he was surrounded by a body
of Reiters, the luckless Bompard, in surrendering
his sword, did so with a shrug of the shoulders so
enigmatic that, instead of announcing *' All is lost
save honor ! " it seemed rather to say : " Digo-li
que vengue, moun bon ! " ^ But the Tarasconese
were not too close observers, and patriotic tears
sparkled in every eye.

THE BREACH.

With such spectacles as these, such songs, amid
such glory of river and sky, no wonder all heads
were turned. And their exaltation reached its
highest point upon reading the Government Bulle-
tins. People accosted each other upon the Espla-
nade with a threatening air, their teeth tightly
closed, chewing their words like bullets. Their
1 Provencal. " Tell him to come on, my brave ! "

The Defence of Tarascon, 73

conversations smelt of powder. There was salt-
petre in the air ! And, above all, one should have
heard these effervescent Tarasconians at a break-
fast in the Cafe de la Comedie.

They would exclaim, " What are they doing, these
Parisians, with that tro7i de Dieu General Trochu
of theirs? They will never, never cut through the
enemy ! Coquin de bon sort ! If now it was
Tarascon ! Trrr ! Long ago we would have made
a breach ! " and while Paris was choking upon its
oat-bread, these gentlemen devoured succulent
red-legged partridges, washing them down with the
good wine of Avignon, and when they had eaten
till they could eat no more, their shining faces
steeped in gravy up to the ears, they would shout
like deaf men, striking the table vigorously, " A
breach there! Make a breach, why don't you?"
And really, they were quite right about it !

THE CLUB'S DEFENCE.

Meanwhile the barbarian invasion was grad-
ually gaining southward. Dijon taken, Lyon was
threatened, and already the Uhlans' mares had
caught a whiff of the fragrant fields of the Rhone
Valley, and neighed longingly for them. ** Let us
organize our defence," said the Tarasconese, and
every one set to work. In an instant the town was
protected, barricaded, casemated. Every house
became a fortress. At Costecalde's, the gunsmith,
there was in front of the shop, a trench two metres

74 Monday Tales,

wide, with a drawbridge too, — really a charming
affair ! At the Club the defensive works were of
such magnitude that every one visited them, moved
by curiosity. Monsieur Bompard, the Club's
director, stood at the head of the stairway, his
chassepot in one hand, and furnished explanations
to the ladies. '' If they should approach on this
side, piff ! paff! If, on the other hand, they come
from that direction, piff! paff! " And at every
street-corner people would stop you with a myste-
rious air, and tell you, " The Cafi de la Com^die is
impregnable ! " or even more mysteriously, *' They
have just put torpedoes under the Esplanade ! "
Certainly the barbarians might do well to reflect I

THE SHARP-SHOOTERS.

At the same time companies of sharp-shooters
were organized with an enthusiasm amounting to
frenzy. Brothers of Death, Narbomiese Jackals,
Bhinderbussers of the Rhone, — they had all sorts
of titles and colors, like the centaurea in a field of
oats ; and such panaches, and cock's-plumes,
gigantic hats, and enormous belts ! That he might
have a more formidable air, every sharp-shooter
allowed his moustache and beard to grow, so that
one acquaintance could no longer recognize
another if they met, out for a walk. At a distance
you would sight a brigand of the Abruzzi, bear-
ing down upon you with flaming eyes, bristling
moustache, and a rattling of sabres, revolvers, and

The Defence of Tar as con, 75

yataghans; and when he came nearer it was only
Pegoulade, the collector. Another time you would
encounter on the stairway Robinson Crusoe him-
self, with his pointed hat, saw-toothed cutlass, and
gun upon his shoulder, but, after all, it was only the
gunsmith Costecalde, returning from town where
he had been dining. But, the worst of it was that
in giving themselves such a ferocious appearance,
the Tarasconese actually became frightened of
themselves, and soon no one dared walk abroad.

WILD RABBITS AND TAME RABBITS.

The Bordeaux decree for the organization of
the national guards put an end to this intolerable
situation. At the powerful bidding of the tri-
umvirs, prrrt! the cock's-plumes suddenly van-
ished, and Jackals, Blunderbussers, and others
presented themselves to be made into honest
militia-men, under orders of the gallant General
Bravida, aged Captain of the Wardrobe. Now en-
sued new complications. The Bordeaux decree,
as you know, recognized two classes in the national
guards, the national guard that was to form part
of the moving army, and the s^dentaireSy — "the wild
rabbits, and the tame rabbits," as Pegoulade the
collector observed drolly enough. At first, while
the companies were forming, those of the guard
who were wild rabbits naturally had the leading
role to play. Every morning they drilled upon
the Esplanade, gallant General Bravida at their

76 Monday Tales.

head ; there was firing and skirmishing —
^^ Couchez-vous! levez-vousT^ — and divers orders.
These sham-fights attracted crowds of spectators.
The ladies of Tarascon would not miss a single one
of them, and even the ladies from Beaucaire would
sometimes cross the bridge, just to admire our
rabbits. All this time, those poor tame rabbits of
the national guard modestly did duty-service in the
town, and were on guard before the museum, where
there was nothing to guard but an old lizard stuffed
with moss, and two falcons of the time of good King
Rene; and besides, the Beaucaire ladies never
crossed the bridge to see them ! But after three
months of skirmishing, when it was perceived that
the wild rabbits of the national guard never once
budged from the Esplanade, the popular enthusiasm
began to cool.

All in vain did General Bravida cry to his rab-
bits, " Couchez-voiis! levez-vous I " No one watched
them now, and soon these mock-skirmishes were
the laughing-stock of the town. Heaven knows,
it was not the fault of these unfortunate rabbits
that they received no marching orders. They
were mad enough about it. At last one day they
refused to drill.

" No more parade ! " they cried with patriotic
fervor ; " we are the moving army, and we want to
march ! "

*' And so you shall, or my name will not be Bra-
vida ! " exclaimed the gallant general, and swelHng
with anger he went to the mairie, and demanded
an explanation. At the mairie^ he was told no

The Defence of Tarascon, "jy

orders had been received ; it was for the prefecture
to give them.

" To the prefecture, then, I will go," said Bravida ;
and a little later he was on the express, bound for
Marseilles, in search of the prefect. Now this was
no easy matter, for at Marseilles there are five or
six prefects permanently located, and none who
can tell you which one of them all is the special
prefect with whom you have to do. However, by
a stroke of good luck, Bravida put his hand upon
the right one at the first moment, for all the pre-
fects were assembled in council, when the gallant
general addressed them in the name of his men,
and with all the authority of a veteran Captain of
the Wardrobe.

But after he had spoken a few words, the prefect
interrupted him, —

" Pardon, general, but how is it that your soldiers
ask you that they may be allowed to move, while
they ask me for permission to stay at home ! Read
this."

And with a smile upon his lips, he tendered the
general a most pathetic petition addressed to the
prefecture, emanating from two of the wild rabbits,
the very ones who had displayed the most furious
zeal for marching ; the petition contained a post-
script from the doctor, from the priest, and from
the notary of the town, and the petitioners re-
quested that on account of physical infirmities they
might be permitted to join the ranks of the tame
rabbits.

" And I have more than three hundred just like

"jS Monday Tales.

them," added the prefect, still smiling. '* Now you
understand, general, why we have not pressed your
men to march. Unfortunately, too many already
have been compelled to move, when they wanted
to stay at home. No more of that ! And so, God
save the Republic ! and — good luck to your
rabbits ! "

THE FAREWELL PUNCH.

It need not be said that the general returned to
Tarascon crestfallen. But now for another story !
What had the Tarasconese done during his absence?
They had actually completed all the arrangements
for a farewell punch, by subscription, for the rabbits
who were about to leave ! All to no purpose did
the gallant General Bravida inform them that they
need not take the trouble, that no one was going
to leave. The punch was subscribed for, ordered ;
nothing remained now but to drink it, and they
did. And so, one Sunday evening, that touching
ceremony of drinking the farewell punch took
place in the rooms of the mairie, and through the
small hours toasts, vivats, addresses, and patriotic
songs made the windows of the municipal building
tremble. Every one knew, of course, how much
significance this farewell punch had. The tame
rabbits of the guard, who had paid for it, were
strongly convinced that their comrades had no in-
tention of leaving. The wild rabbits, who drank
the punch, were of the same conviction, and the

The Defence of Tarascon, 79

venerable deputy-mayor, who, in a voice trembling
with emotion, protested in the hearing of all these
braves that he was ready to march at their head,
knew better than any other there that they were
not to march at all. But what difference did that
make ? These niMdionattx are such extraordinary
creatures that before the farewell punch was fin-
ished everybody was in tears, every one embracing
his neighbor, and, strangest of all, everybody was
sincere about it, even the general.

At Tarascon, as indeed throughout all the South
of France, I have frequently observed this result of
mirage.

8o Monday Tales.

BELISAIRE'S PRUSSIAN.

Here is an incident I heard related in a pot-
house at Montmartre. To repeat it to you as it
was told, I ought to have the local vocabulary of
Master Belisaire, his big carpenter's apron, and two
or three draughts of that fine white wine of Mont-
martre, which can give a Parisian accent even to a
Frenchman from Marseilles ! Then I should be
sure the same shiver would pass through your
veins as thrilled mine in hearing Belisaire narrate
to a tableful of companions this lugubrious and
veritable story.

" It was the day after the amnesty " ('' the armis-
tice,'' B^Hsaire would say). *' My wife had sent
us both, the boy and me, to take a walk around
Villeneuve-la-Garenne, for we had a little shanty
there, at the river's edge, and we had been without
news of it ever since the siege began. I was both-
ered at having to take the boy along, for I knew
we should run into the Prussians, and as I had
never met any of them before, I felt sure that some-
thing would happen. But the mother stuck to her
idea, and said ' Go, go ! then the child will get an
airing.'

" And indeed the poor thing needed one badly
enoue^h, after five months of siege and mildew!

Belisaires Prussian. 8i

And so we both started out for the country.
Maybe the brat was n't pleased to find out that
there were still trees and birds ; maybe he did n't
paddle through the plough-lands ! But I did n't
enjoy myself quite so much. There were too many
helmets along the road. From the canal to the
Island I saw nothing else. Insolent dogs ! one
had to hold on to himself with all his might to keep
from hammering one or two ! But, you may be-
lieve, I nearly boiled over when I entered Ville-
neuve, and saw our poor gardens completely ruined,
our houses open, turned inside out, and those ban-
dits making themselves at home in our quarters,
calling from window to window, hanging their
woollen shirts upon our shutters and trellises.
Luckily the child was at my side, and when my
hand itched too much I thought as I looked at
him : ' Keep cool, Belisaire. Look out that no
harm happens to the youngster ! ' Only that saved
me from making a fool of myself I understood
then why the mother wanted me to take him along.
" Our shanty stood at the end of the road, last
one on the right hand, on the quay. I found it
had been emptied from top to bottom, just like the
others. Not a bit of furniture, not so much as a
pane of glass left. Only a few bundles of straw ;
the last leg of the big arm-chair was crackling in
the chimney-place. I scented Prussians every-
where, but could n't see one. Then it did seem to
me that I heard something stirring down in the
basement. I had a little bench there, where I
amused myself of a Sunday at odd jobs. I told

6

82 Monday Tales,

the boy to wait for me where he was, and I went
downstairs to look for myself

" No sooner had I opened the door than one of
William's soldiers, a big brute of a fellow, sprang
with a snort from beneath a pile of shavings, and
rushed towards me, his eyes starting from his head,
and with all manner of oaths I understood not a
word of! He must have felt out of sorts when he
awoke, for at the first word I attempted to say, he
started to draw his sword.

" I was struck of a heap. All the spleen which
had been gathering for the last hour was upper-
most. I gripped the big iron clamp of the bench,
and I struck. You know, comrades, that Belisaire's
fist is no light one on ordinary occasions, but that
day it seemed as if I had the Almighty's thunder-
bolts at the end of my arm. The very first blow
knocked my Prussian silly. There he lay, sprawl-
ing at full length. I thought he was only stunned.
Well, yes ! stunned he was, done for, my boys.
The neatest, cleanest bit of work ! — as if he 'd
been washed in potash. What do you say to that,
eh?

" And I, who had never killed anything in my life
before, not so much as a lark ! It seemed queer
enough to see that big carcass stretched in front of
me. My word for it, he was a fair, handsome fel-
low, with a funny little beard, that curled just like
ash shavings. My legs shook under me as I looked
at him. By this time, the boy had grown tired up-
stairs, and I heard him crying at the full strength
of his lungs, ' Papa, papa ! *

Belisaires Prussian, 83

" The Prussians were passing along the road ; I
could catch a glimpse of their sabres and their big
legs through the air-hole of the basement. Sud-
denly it occurred to me : * If they get in, the child
is lost ! They '11 kill every one they find. That
was the end of it. I trembled no longer. I shoved
my Prussian hastily under the bench, covering him
with everything I could find, boards and sawdust
and shavings ; then I went upstairs to find the boy.

" * Come along.'

"'What's the matter, papa? How pale you
look ! •

** ' Come, come ! '

" And I can tell you, if those Cossacks had turned
me upside down, searched me through and through,
I 'd have offered no objection. It seemed to me
every moment that I heard some one running,
crying, at our backs ; once I heard a horse, close
upon us, going at a gallop. It startled me so I
thought I should drop. But after the bridge was
passed, I dared to look about me, and knew where
I was again. Saint-Denis was full of people.
There was no danger of our being fished out of
that crowd. Then for the first time I thought of
our poor shanty. Very likely the Prussians would
set fire to it when they discovered their comrade ;
and besides, my neighbor Jacquot, the river-keeper,
was the only Frenchman in that neighborhood
how, and it would surely make trouble for him
when it was found that a soldier had been killed
almost at his door. It was a shabby trick I had
served him, running off in that fashion.

84 Monday Tales.

" I might at least have put my man where he
would n't be found. As I came nearer Paris, that
thought pestered me more and more. I don't
deny it made me uneasy to think I had left that
Prussian there in my cellar. When I reached the
rampart, I could n't stand it any longer.

" * Go ahead,' I said to the youngster. * I have a
customer I must see at Saint-Denis.'

*' Then I kissed him, and turned back. My heart
beat a Httle faster than usual, but what did that
matter ? I was relieved to think the boy was not
with me.

"As I approached Villeneuve, night was coming
on. I kept my eye open, you may be sure, and
my head looked out for my heels. The country
was quiet enough. I could see the shanty, just
where it always was, there in the fog. Along the
quay stretched a long, black line. It was the
Prussians, mustering. I had a good chance of
finding the house empty.

" As I slipped along the enclosures, I saw Father
Jacquot in his yard, spreading his nets. Surely
nothing had been discovered so far. I entered
our place, and went down cellar, feeling my way
along. I found my Prussian was still under his
shavings. Two big rats were tugging away at his
helmet, and it gave me quite a start to hear that
chin-piece moving. For a moment I thought that
the dead man had come to life again, but no ! his
head was heavy and cold. I hid in a corner, and
waited. My idea was to throw the body into the
Seine, after the others had fallen asleep.

Belisaires Prussian, 85

" I don't know whether it was because that corpse
was so close to me, but the tattoo of the Prussians
sounded infernally doleful to me that evening.
Three great trumpet blasts at once, and * Ta^ ta^
ta — 'a regular frog-concert ! Our soldiers of the
line would never want to turn in to such music as
that!

" For five minutes I heard the noise of sabres,
rapping upon the doors. Then some soldiers
entered the yard, and began to call, —

" ' Hoffman, Hoffman ! '

" Poor Hoffman lay there under his shavings,
quiet enough. It was I who was ready to drop !
Every moment I expected to hear them enter that
cellar. I had dug out the dead man's sword, and
there I waited, never daring to budge, saying all to
myself; ' If you get out of this alive, my boy, you
owe a splendid candle to St. John the Baptist at
Belleville ! '

" All the same, after they had called Hoffman
often enough, my tenants decided to enter. I heard
their heavy boots tramping over the stairs, and in
a few minutes the entire barrack of them was snor-
ing soundly, making as much noise as a country
clock. That was what I had been waiting for ! I
started out. The bank was deserted, the lights in
the houses were out. So much the better. I went
down into the basement again. I dug out my
Hoffman from under that bench, stood him up,
and hoisted him over my shoulders as a porter
might his pack. Oh ! but he was heavy, the rascal !
And what with fear, and nothing in my crop since

S6 Monday Tales.

morning I never thought I 'd have strength enough
for what I had to do. And then, just on the mid-
dle of the quay, I thought I felt some one behind
me. I turned around. Not a soul ! But the moon
was rising. I said to myself, * Look out ! the
sentry may fire upon you any moment.'

" To make matters worse, the Seine was low. If
I threw him in near the bank, he 'd stay there, as
if he 'd been dropped into a basin. I went in my-
self. On and on ! But nowhere water enough.
My strength was gone. My limbs were cramped.
At last, when I thought I was deep enough in, I
let my man drop. But what do you think? He
stuck in the mud. Could n't move him. I shoved
and shoved. Get up, get up there ! But luckily an
east wind sprang up. The Seine swelled, and I
felt that the dead man slipped lightly from his
mooring. A pleasant voyage ! I swallowed a
mouthful of water and clambered on to the bank
again.

" As I crossed the Villeneuve bridge I saw a black
object in the middle of the Seine. From a dis-
tance it looked like a wherry. It was my Prussian,
floating towards Argenteuil, following the current
of the river."

Country 'Folk in Paris, 87

COUNTRY-FOLK IN PARIS DURING
THE SIEGE.

At Champrosay, these people were happy in-
deed. Their farmyard was just under my windows,
and for six months of the year my Hfe brought me
somewhat in contact with theirs. Before day-
break, the goodman of the house would proceed
to the stable, harness his wagon, and set out for
Corbeil, where he sold his vegetables ; a little later
the wife rose, dressed the children, fed the poul-
try, and milked the cow ; all morning long there
was such a clatter of sabots over the wooden stair-
case ! In the afternoon all was silent. The father
was in the fields, the children were at school, and
the mother busied herself silently, spreading out
linen in the yard, or sat and sewed before her
door, watching her youngest. From time to time
some passer-by would stop on the road, and then
she would have a chat, plying her needle all the
while.

But one day — it was towards the end of the
month of August, ever that memorable month ! —
I heard the goodwife saying to one of her
neighbors, —

"What! you don't mean it? The Prussians?
but they Ve merely reached France ! — nothing
more ! "

88 Monday Tales,

" They are at Chalons, Mother Jean ! " I ex-
claimed from my window. And that made her
smile not a little. In that small, out-of-the-way
corner of Seine-et-Oise the country-people could
not believe in an invasion at all.

And yet every day wagons were seen passing,
loaded with luggage. People had closed their
houses, and through that beautiful month, when
the days are so long, gardens blossomed in dreary
solitude, and no one so much as opened a gate to
look at them. By degrees my neighbors them-
selves grew alarmed. Each fresh departure from
the neighborhood made them sad. They felt they
were forsaken.

One morning a flourish of drums was heard
through the village. An order had come from the
mairie. They must go to Paris, sell their cow,
their fodder, leave nothing behind for the Prus-
sians. And so the goodman set out for Paris, and
it was a mournful journey indeed. Along the
paved highway, one heavy van of furniture fol-
lowed another, a long procession, and helter-skelter
ran troops of swine and sheep, dazed and con-
fused, getting between the wheels, while oxen, tied
together, bellowed after the wagons. On the side of
the road, along the ditch, poor wretches were hurry-
ing on foot,behind handcarts full of antiquated furni-
ture, faded easy-chairs. Empire-tables, and mirrors
draped in chintz ; it was impossible not to feel what
distress had entered these homes, at having to re-
move all these dusty things, all these relics, and to
drag load upon load of them along the highways.

Country-Folk in Paris, 89

At the gates of Paris it was sufifocating. There
was a wait of two hours. All this time the poor
farmer, pushed against his cow, gazed in terror
at the embrasures, where cannon were mounted,
at ditches filled with water, the fortifications which
rose before him, and tall Italian poplars, cut down
and withering along the roadside. That evening
he returned, utterly dismayed, and told his wife all
he had seen. The wife was terrified, and wanted
to leave the very next day. But something always
occurred to delay their departure from one day to
another. There was a new harvesting, or a piece
of land that must be ploughed, — and would they
not have time to gather the vintage ? And deep
down in their hearts was a vague hope that per-
haps the Prussians would not visit their part of the
world.

One night they were awakened by an awful
report! The Corbeil bridge had been blown up.
Men were running about the country, knocking
from door to door, with the cry, —

"The Uhlans! the Uhlans! Flee for your
lives ! "

They rose as quickly as they could, harnessed
the wagon, dressed the children, still half-asleep,
and fled along the crossroads with some of their
neighbors. Just as they climbed the hill, the clock
rang three. They looked back one last time.
There was the watering-place, the church-square,
there were the roads they knew so well, one de-
scending towards the Seine, the other winding
among the vineyards. Already everything began

90 Monday Tales,

to look strange to them, and in the gray mist of
the early morning the little deserted village itself,
each house closed against its neighbor, seemed to
shiver as if it too were filled with some terrible
foreboding.

And now they are in Paris. Two rooms in the
fourth story, in a dismal street. The man himself
might be worse off; work has been found for him,
and besides, he is in the national guard. He has
the life on the ramparts, the daily drill, and diverts
himself as best he can, that he may forget his
empty granary, and his unsown fields. But the
woman, less amenable to the influences of civiliza-
tion, is wretched, weary of it all, does not know
what to do with herself She has sent the two
oldest children to school ; but in that dreary day-
school, not brightened by a single flower-plot, the
little girls cannot breathe freely, and they remem-
ber their own pretty convent-school in the country,
as busy and full of life and happiness as a beehive.
They remember the half-mile walk they took
through the woods every morning to reach that
school. It pains the mother to see them so un-
happy, but she worries most of all about the
youngest child.

At home, he went back and forth, following her
everywhere, through the yard, through the house,
passing across the threshold as many times as her-
self, dabbling his tiny, reddened hands in the wash-
tub, seating himself at the door when she would
rest herself for a little while with her knitting. But
here, they must climb four stories, over a dark stair-

Country- Folk in Paris. 91

way where the feet slip ; there is only a miserable
fire in the narrow chimney-place, and through the
high windows is seen only a gray, smoky horizon,
and roof-tops of wet slate.

There is, however, a yard where he might play,
but this the concierge will not permit. These con-
cierges are another invention of city life. At home,
in the village, every man is his own master, and
every one has at least a little corner he may call his
own. And all day long the door is ajar ; at night-
fall a big wooden latch is enough for safety, and
soon the entire household is wrapped in the dark-
ness of night in the country, a night which knows
no fear, and is filled with refreshing slumber. Now
and then a dog may bark at the moon, but no one
loses his rest on that account. Here in Paris, in
these houses of the poor, the concierge is the real
proprietor. Her boy dares not go downstairs
alone, he is so afraid of this ill-natured woman,
who has even compelled them to sell their goat,
pretending that it dragged straw and peelings over
the stones of the yard.

The poor mother has no stories left with which
to divert the child when he is tired. After their
meal is over, she wraps him as if they were going
for a walk in the fields. Together, hand in hand,
they pass through the streets, along the boulevards.
Startled, jostled against, bewildered, the child
scarcely casts a glance around him. He sees
nothing that interests him except horses. They
are the only objects that look familiar to him, and
he smiles when he sees one. Neither does the

92 Mo7iday Tales.

mother take the least pleasure now in anything she
sees. She walks on with slow steps, dreaming of
her house, her little homestead. And as they pass
by, — the mother with her open, honest expression,
her neat attire, her smooth and shining hair, the
child with his chubby figure, his big galoshes, — one
who looks at them closely must feel that they are
two aliens, exiles, who long, with all their hearts,
for the fresh air and the solitude of their country
lanes.

Al the Outposts. 93

AT THE OUTPOSTS.
MEMORIES OF THE SIEGE.

The following notes were written from day to
day, while passing from one outpost to another.
In offering them, I am merely detaching a leaf
from my note-book, before the Siege of Paris has
become a thing of the past. It is only a sketch,
desultory and abrupt, dashed off upon my knee
from time to time, and with no more smoothness
than the splinter of a shell. But I give these notes
just as they are, without altering one word, without
even rereading them for myself, lest in so doing I
might attempt to lend interest to them by adding
fiction to fact, and so mar the whole.

AT LA CORNEUVE, A MORNING IN DECEMBER.

A WHITE, wintry plain, rugged and chalky, across
which every sound echoes. Along the frozen mud
of the road the infantry of the line are advancing,
pell-mell, with the artillery. A slow and dreary
march. There will be fighting soon. The men
stumble again and again, walk with lowered heads,
shivering with the cold, their guns strapped, their

94 Monday Tales,

hands concealed within their blankets, as in a muff.
From time to time is heard the cry of " Halt ! "

The frightened horses neigh. The ammunition
wagons rumble, and artillery-men, raising them-
selves in the saddle, anxiously scan the great white
wall of Bourget.

" Can you see them? " ask the soldiers, striking
their feet together to warm them. And then
" Forward march ! " and that human wave, driven
back for a moment, moves onward in silence, never
quickening its pace.

On the horizon, in front of the fort of Auber-
villiers, and sharply outlined against the cold sky in
which the sun is rising like a leaden disc, a little
group is seen. It is the governor and his staff;
against the gray sky they stand in strong relief,
like Japanese figures upon a background of mother-
of-pearl. In nearer view, stationed along the road
like a flock of crows, black-robed figures are seen,
ministering brothers of charity, ready for duty at
the ambulances. Standing there, their hands
crossed beneath their capes as they watch the long
line moving on to become food for the cannon,
devotion, humility, and sorrow speak from their
eyes.

Same day, — Villages deserted, abandoned
houses wide open, roofs demolished, windows
with their weatherboards gone, staring at you like
the eyes of a corpse.

Now and then, in one of these ruins where every
sound reverberates, something is heard stirring, the
sound of footsteps perhaps, or a door rattHng on

At the Outposts, 95

its hinges ; and after you have passed, a soldier of
the line appears on the threshold, hollow-eyed,
suspicious, — some marauder perhaps, who is mak-
ing a search, or some deserter seeking a hiding-
place. Upon entering one of these country-houses,
towards noon, it appears to be empty and bare.
A vulture's claws could not scrape it cleaner ! On
the lower floor the big kitchen, windowless, door-
less, opens upon the back yard, and at the end of
the yard is a green hedge ; behind the hedge the
open country is seen. At one end there is a little
spiral stairway of stone. I seat myself upon one
of its steps, and remain there for some time. How
good a gift this sunshine, this deep calm every-
where ! Two or three big flies of last summer,
revived by the sunlight, buzz about the rafters of
the ceiling. At the fireplace, a few traces of a fire
remain, and the hearthstone is reddened with con-
gealed blood. This blood-stained hearth, those
cinders still warm, tell the mournful story of the
preceding night.

ALONG THE MARNE.

December ^i. — Went out through the Porte de
Montreuil. A heavy sky, piercing wind, — fog
everywhere.

No one to be seen in Montreuil. Doors and
windows closed. Behind their enclosure, a flock
of geese were cackling. Plainly, the master him-
self is still here, but in hiding. A little further on,

96 Monday Tales,

a cabaret, open. It is warm within, and there is a
roaring fire. Three provincials, mobiles, it ap-
pears, are seated as close to it as possible, break-
fasting. They speak not a word; their eyes are
swollen, their faces inflamed ; they rest their
elbows upon the table, and the poor moblots
almost fall asleep as they eat.

Left Montreuil, and crossed the Bois de Vin-
cennes, blue with the dense smoke of bivouac fires.
Ducrot's army is there. The men are cutting trees
to warm themselves. It is a shame to see poplars
and birches and young ash-trees flying into the
air, root and all, and trailing their delicate golden
foliage along the road.

At Nogent, more soldiers, — artillery-men in
great cloaks, Norman mobiles, with plump bodies,
rounded as apples, Httle Zouaves, well-muffled, but
agile enough, soldiers of the line, bent almost
double, their blue handkerchiefs tied about their
ears, beneath their k6pis. Loungers swarm the
streets, people jostle each other at the doorways
of the two grocery-shops still open. One is
reminded of some tiny Algerian village.

At last the open country. A long, deserted
road descending towards the Marne. A beautiful
sky, pearly in tint, trees whose bare boughs shiver
in the mist ; below, the great viaduct of the railway,
presenting a sinister appearance, like a huge jaw
in which a tooth is gone here and there, for the
arches of the viaduct have been destroyed in
places.

Passing through Le Perreux, ruined gardens

At the Outposts, 97

everywhere, houses devastated and dreary ; in one
of those tiny villas bordering the roadside, I saw
behind the gate three great white chrysanthemums,
full-blown, which had escaped the general massacre.
I pushed open the gate and entered, but they were
so beautiful that I could not bear to pluck them.

Took a cross-road, and descended towards the
Marne. When I reached the riverside, the sun
came out, and shone in full glory upon the river.
It was a lovely sight. Just across the river was
Petit-Bry, where there had been so much fighting
the day before ; on the hillside, surrounded by
vineyards, its little white houses nestle peacefully,
row upon row. Near me, on the river, a boat
among the reeds. A group of men are talking
upon the bank, while they watch the opposite
slope. They are scouts who are going to Petit-
Bry to discover whether the Saxons have returned.
I cross with them. As we are rowed over the
stream, one of the scouts, sitting behind me, says
to me in a low voice, —

" If you wish chassepots — the mairie is full of
them. They have left a colonel of the line there
too, a big, fair-haired fellow, with a skin as white as
a woman's ; and he had on yellow boots that were
quite new ! "

The boots of the dead soldier had evidently
impressed him more than anything else. He was
constantly referring to them.

" Vingt dieiix ! but that was a fine pair of
boots ! " and his eyes sparkled as he spoke.

As we entered Petit-Bry, a sailor shod with
7

98 Monday Tales,

Spanish sandals and carrying four or five chasse-
pots, came rolling out of an alley and approached
us on the run.

" Keep your eyes open ! there are the Prus-
sians ! " he said.

We crouched behind a little wall and watched.
Above us, and higher than the vineyards them-
selves, a horseman was seen, quite a melodramatic
figure, outlined against the horizon. He was lean-
ing forward in the saddle, his helmet upon his
head, his carbine in his hand. Then other horse-
men appeared, and foot-soldiers crouched in various
places among the vines.

One of them, quite near us, had taken position
behind a tree, and never once moved. He was a
huge fellow, in a long brown coat, and a colored
handkerchief was tied about his head. From the
spot where we stood he would have made a splendid
target, but what good would that have done ? The
scouts knew what they were about. And so we
hastily entered the boat. The boatman began to
swear. We recrossed the Marne without mishap.
But scarcely had we landed when we heard muffled
voices calling from the opposite bank, —

'' Holloa, holloa there ! the boat ! "

It was my acquaintance who had taken such a
fancy to the boots a while before ; with three or
four of his companions, he had attempted to reach
the mairie, and was obliged to return precipitately.
Unfortunately, there was no one to return for him
and his companions. Our boatman had disap-
peared.

At the Outposts, 99

'* I do not know how to row," says to me, pite-
ously enough, the sergeant of the scouts, who is
crouching at my side in a hole at the water's edge.
All this time the others are growing impatient.

" Come, come ! " they call ; some one must get
them. Not an agreeable task. The Marne is
rough and swollen. I pull across with all my
might, and every moment I feel, back of me, that
Saxon above, watching me, motionless, from behind
his tree.

In boarding the boat, one of the scouts jumps
in so hastily that it is filled with water. It becomes
impossible to take on all the men without running
the risk of sinking the boat. The bravest one
remains to wait upon the bank. He is a corporal
of the franc-tireurs, a handsome boy in blue, a little
bird worked upon the front of his cap. I would
have returned for him gladly, but just then a fusil-
lade from one bank to another began. He waited
a few moments without a word ; then he took him-
self off towards Champigny, keeping close to the
walls. I do not know what became of him.

Same day. — It is the same with things as with
persons ; a union of the grotesque with the
dramatic adds peculiar intensity to the thrill of
horror we experience. To see great suffering
stamped upon a face whose outline at other times
would cause a smile, does not this move you more
profoundly than it would to read the same story
elsewhere? Picture to yourself a bourgeois of
Daumier's in the last agonies of death, or weeping
his heart out beside the dead body of a son

lOO Monday Tales,

brought home to him slain. Is there not pecuHar
poignancy in that anguish? Ah, well! to look at
all those bourgeois villas along the Marne, toy-
gingerbread cottages, gaudy caricatures in rose-
pink, apple-green, canary-yellow, and mediaeval
turrets roofed with zinc, kiosks of imitation brick,
rococo gardens, in the centre of each a white metal
ball, — when I see them now, blackened with the
smoke of battle, their roofs splintered with shells,
their weather-vanes broken, their walls dented,
blood and straw everywhere, there is something
horrible in the sight.

The house which I entered was a fair type of
them all. I ascended to the first story and entered
the little parlor, done in red and gold. The paper-
hangers had not finished their work upon it. Rolls
of paper and gilded mouldings were lying about,
but there was not a trace of furniture. Bits of
broken bottles were scattered over the floor, and
in a corner, upon a straw mattress, a man was
sleeping in his blouse. Moreover, an indescribable
odor of wine, powder, candles, and musty straw ;
which of these the strongest, it would be hard
to say. To warm myself, I toss the leg of a centre-
table into the fireplace. Such an idiotic fireplace,
stuccoed in pink, and resembling some marvel of
the confectioner's art !

While I look at it, for a moment it seems to me
that I am merely spending a Sunday afternoon
in the country in some prosperous little bour-
geois establishment. Is not some one playing
backgammon behind me there, in the parlor?

At the Outposts, loi

No ! those are riflemen, loading and discharging
their chassepots. Except for the frequent re-
ports, one might mistake the sound for the tossing
of dice.

Upon each report, there is a reply from the
opposite bank. The sound borne across the water
ricochets back and forth, and echoes ceaselessly
among the hills.

Through the loopholes in the parlor, the gleam
of the Marne may be seen, its bank bathed in sun-
light, and between the poles of the vineyards, like
great greyhounds, move the Prussian -i.

SOUVENIR OF FORT MONTROUGE.

High above, upon the bastion of the fort, in the
embrasure formed by sandbags, long marine guns
raise themselves proudly, almost erect in their car-
riages, pointing towards Chatillon. Thus aimed,
with their mouths in the air, their handles protrud-
ing like ears on each side, they make one think of
immense hunting-dogs baying at the moon, bel-
lowing in the face of death. A little lower, upon a
terreplein, the sailors are amusing themselves, as if
aboard ship, by making an English garden in mini-
ature. There is a bench, an arbor, lawns, and
rockeries, and even a banana-tree, not a very tall
one, to be sure, scarcely higher than a hyacinth ;
but all the same it is a welcome sight, and its small
green tuft, seen in the midst of sandbags and piles
of shells, refreshes the eye.

I02 Monday Tales,

Oh ! that little garden at Fort Montrouge !
Would I might see it again, surrounded by a pal-
ing, and in that garden a memorial stone, on which
were inscribed the names of Carves, Desprez,
Saisset, and all those brave sailors who fell at their
post of honor on yonder bastion.

AT LA FOUILLEUSE.

The morning of the twentieth of January. A
pleasant mording, mild and cloudy. Great stretches
of plou^h-laiid, undulating at a distance, like the
3?:aL/: 'On thf^ left, high sand-hills, which serve as
a buttress for Mont Valerien. On the right,
Gibet Mill, a httle stone mill, its sails broken and
a battery upon its platform.

Walked for a quarter of an hour beside the long
trench leading to the mill. Over it rested a light
veil, like a river mist. It was smoke from the biv-
ouac fires. Soldiers were squatting about, making
coffee. The smoke of the green wood they were
inhaling blinded and choked them. From one end
to the other of the trench, a prolonged cough was
heard. La Fouilleuse, — a farm, bordered by small
timber. Arrived there just in time to see the last
of our lines beating a retreat. It was the Third
Regiment of Paris mobiles. It marched in good
order, none missing, a commander at its head.
After the incomprehensible confusion and disorder
I had seen since yesterday evening, this sight reas-
sured me a little. After the men, came two horse-

At the Outposts, 103

men, — a general and his aide-de-camp. They
were quite near me as they passed. The horses
were trotting leisurely, the two men were talking to
each other, and loudly enough to be heard. The
aide-de-camp said, in a fresh young voice, a trifle
obsequious, —

" Yes, general ! — oh, no ! general — certainly,
my general."

And the general, in mild, but heart-broken
tones, —

"What! he is slain? Oh! the poor boy, the
poor boy ! "

Then the voices were silent, and nothing was
heard but the tramping of horses in the soft earth.

For a moment I remained there alone, looking
at that vast, melancholy landscape. One was re-
minded somewhat of the plains of Chelif or of
Mitidja. Lines of ambulance men in gray blouses
were climbing a hollowed road. Seeing their white
banner, with its red cross, one might have believed
he was in Palestine, at the time of the Crusades.

I04 Monday Tales.

GLIMPSES OF THE INSURRECTION.

IN THE MARAIS.

In the dampness and provincial gloom of these
long, tortuous streets, through which are wafted
odors of drugs and logwood, in the midst of
these ancient h6tels of the time of Henry II., of
Louis XIII. , which modern industry has caricatured
by converting them into establishments for the
manufacture of seltzer-water, bronzes, and chemical
products, these mouldy gardens filled with packing-
cases, these courts of honor, over which heavy
trucks are rumbling, these swelling balconies, tall
windows, worm-eaten gables, as blackened with
smoke as church extinguishers, — in this quarter,
the insurrection, especially during those first days,
has a unique physiognomy, all its own, an air of
primitive simplicity. Rough attempts at barri-
cading every street-corner, but not a soul to
guard the barricade. No cannons, no mitrailleuses.
Heaps of stones piled up without method or intelli-
gence, simply for the delight of obstructing a
passage, leaving big puddles of water for swarms
of gamins to paddle in, saihng flotillas of paper
boats. Every shop is open, and the shop-keepers
are standing at their doors, laughing and discussing
politics, from one sidewalk to another. It is not

Glimpses of the Insurrection, 105

such people as these who are raising riots, but
it is plainly to be seen that they regard the
work of the insurgents well-pleased, as though,
in disturbing the stones of this peaceful neigh-
borhood, the revolt had aroused the very soul
of the ancient bourgeois of Paris in all its riotous
levity.

What might have been called, in other days,
the spirit of the Fronde, animates the Marais at
this hour. Upon the frontons of these proud
houses, grotesque faces of sculptured stone, gri-
mace joyously, as if to say, " We have seen all this
before ! " And my fancy runs away with me and
in spite of myself clothes in flowered coats, knee-
breeches and big cocked hats this little world of
bustling druggists, gilders, and grocers, who with
the air of mere spectators watch the tearing up of
their streets, their sides shaking with laughter, and
are proud to think they have a barricade close to
their very shops.

Now and then, at the end of a long, dark alley, I
I can see bayonets gleaming upon the Place de
Greve. I catch a glimpse of the ancient town-hall,
gilded by the sun. In this blaze of light, horsemen
are seen galloping by, in long gray cloaks, with
floating plumes.

A crowd follows them, shouting and waving their
hats. Is it Mademoiselle Montpensier or General
Cremer? Epochs begin to grow confused in my
brain. In the sunhght, at a distance, a red-shirted
Garibaldian orderly rushes by at full speed, and I
can almost fancy that I see the red cloak of the

1 06 Monday Tales,

Cardinal de Retz. I can scarcely tell whether that
shrewdest of shrewd schemers, of whom all these
groups of people are talking, is M. Thiers or
Mazarin. I seem to be in a past three hundred
years removed from to-day.

AT MONTMARTRE.

As I was climbing the Rue Lepic the other
morning, I saw in a cobbler's shop an officer of
the national guard, with sabre at his side, and lace
up to the elbow. He was tapping a pair of boots,
protected by his leather apron that he need not
soil his coat. One glance at that shop-window was
enough to suggest the whole of insurgent Mont-
martre.

Imagine an immense village, armed to the teeth,
mitrailleuses in front of the watering-trough, the
church-square bristling with bayonets, a barricade
in front of the schoolhouse, milk-cans and canister
side by side ; every house is converted into a bar-
rack, at every window soldiers' gaiters are hanging
to dry, kepis lean forward, waiting to hear the call ;
in the little shops where old clothes are sold, a vig-
orous pounding of gun-butts is heard, and from
the foot of the hill to the top, a clatter of platters
and sabres and canteens. Yet, in spite of all these
things, Montmartre does not look as fierce as when
it marched upon the Boulevard des Italiens, rifles
shouldered, and chin-straps under the chins, mark-
ing time ferociously, and seeming to say, " Our

Glimpses of the Insurrection. 107

best behavior now ! the Reaction is watching us."
Here the insurgents are at home, and in spite of
cannon and barricades, there is httle of a formal or
formidable nature in this revolt. It seemed rather
a family affair.

A painful sight it was, however, to see the swarms
of red trousers, deserters of all sorts — Zouaves,
lignards^ mobiles — obstructing the square in front
of the mairiey lying about on the benches, sprawling
along the sidewalks, drunken, filthy, tattered, and
unshaven for a week. As I was passing, one of
these luckless rascals, who had climbed up into
a tree, began to harangue the crowd. His tongue
did not move very freely, and laughter and hoot-
ings greeted his efforts. In another part of the
Place, a battalion was in motion, on its way up to
the ramparts.

** Forward ! " cried the officers, waving their
swords. The drums beat the charge, and the
worthy militiamen, with ardent zeal, rushed to the
assault of a long, deserted street, at the end of
which could be seen a few terrified, cackling hens,
— nothing more !

At the top of the hill a vista of green gardens
and yellow roads ; rising in their midst La Galette
mill, transformed into a military post, with rows of
tents, the smoke of tiny bivouac-fires, and, outlined
against this background, figures of the national
guard are seen. Every object as sharply defined
as if sighted from the end of a spyglass, between
the sky, black and full of rain, and the shining
ochre of the hill.

io8 Monday Tales,

AT THE FAUBOURG SAINT-ANTOINE.

A NIGHT in January, during the Siege of Paris,
I stood upon the Place de Nanterre, in the midst
of a battahon of Franc-tireurs . The enemy had
just attacked our outposts, and men hastily arming
to go to the relief of their comrades were forming,
groping their way as best they could through the
wind and snow; we saw a patrol emerge from a
street-corner, preceded by a lantern.

" Halt ! who goes there ? "

'' Mobiles of '48," rephed the tremulous voice of
an old man. They were tiny fellows in short cloaks,
kepis askew, and something almost infantile in their
appearance. At a little distance they might have
been mistaken for children of the regiment, but
when the sergeant went closer to see who they
were, the light of our lanterns revealed a tiny old
man, wrinkled, faded, with blinking eyes and a
snow-white chin-beard. This child of the regiment
was at least a hundred years old. His companions
were scarcely younger. And then that Parisian
accent and swashbuckler air of these venerable
old gamins !

Arrived the day before at the outposts, the un-
happy mobiles had lost their way on their first
patrol. They were quickly despatched upon their
business.

'* Make haste, comrades ! the Prussians are at-
tacking us."

Glimpses of the Insurrection, 109

"Ah ! ah ! the Prussians are attacking us ! " re-
peated the poor old creatures, quite dismayed ; and
turning upon their heels, they were soon lost in
the night, their lantern dancing and flickering
under the fusillade.

I cannot tell you the fantastic impression these
tiny gnomes produced upon me. They looked so
aged, so bewildered, so weary ! They seemed to
have come from some great distance, — and I
could almost imagine this was a phantom-patrol,
wandering through the land since 1848, a patrol
that had lost its way twenty-three years ago, and
in search of it ever since.

The insurgents of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine
recalled this apparition to me. I found these
ancients of '48 forever going astray — a little older
now than they were then, but as incorrigible as
ever, hoary-haired rioters playing at their old
game of civil war with a classic barricade two or
three stories high, a red flag floating from its sum-
mit, melodramatic attitudes at the cannon's breech,
sleeves rolled up, gruff voices exclaiming, —

" Keep on the move, citizens ! " and then their
bayonets were pointed.

All is bustle and commotion upon this great
Babel-like faubourg. From the Place du Trone
to the Bastille, surprises, scuffles, searches, and
arrests, open-air meetings, pilgrimages to the
Column ; ^ tipsy patroUers have forgotten the pass-
word; chassepots go off" of themselves; ribalds
are led to the comit^ of the Rue Basfroid ; the

1 La Colonne de Juillet, on the Place de la Bastille. — Tr.

no Monday Tales.

drum beats to arms ; the general and the tocsin are
heard. Oh ! that tocsin. With what dehght these
madmen set their bells a-ringing. As soon as
twilight sets in, in every belfry a mad dance begins,
incessant as the tinkling of a jester's bells ! Hark !
the drunken tocsin, fantastic, uncertain, panting in
broken tones, stammering and hiccoughing. And
the earnest tocsin ! ringing put fiercely with all its
might, peal upon peal, till the bell-rope breaks !
And then the muffled tocsin, Hfeless and dead, its
sleepy notes falling as heavily upon the ear as the
curfew's toll.

In the midst of all this tumult of distracted bells
and brains, I am impressed by the tranquillity of
the Rue Lappe and the alleys and passages which
radiate from it. The neighborhood is a species of
Auvergnese ghetto where the children of Cantal
traffic peacefully their old iron, as httle concerned
with thoughts of an insurrection as though it were
located a thousand leagues away. As I pass, I note
that all these brave R^monencques are very busy
in their dark shops. The women squat upon the
stone step in front of their doorways, and knit and
jabber in broken French, while their httle ones
tumble about in the passage, their frizzly locks full
of iron-dust.

The Ferry, ill

THE FERRY.

Before the war, a fine suspension-bridge crossed
the river at this point, with two lofty piers of white
stone, and its tarred cordage, spanning the horizon
from one river-bank to the other, presented that
aerial appearance which adds such beauty to vessels
or balloons. Beneath the great middle arches of
the bridge, a line of boats passed twice a day, in
clouds of smoke, without having to lower a smoke-
stack. On either bank, washerwomen's boats
and beaters were seen, and small fishing-boats
anchored to rings.

A road shaded with poplars led to the bridge,
stretching from meadow to meadow, like a great
green curtain, fluttering with every breeze that
blew from the river. It was a charming sight.

But this year all is changed. The poplars are
still standing, but they no longer lead to the bridge,
for the bridge is gone. The two piers have been
blown up, scattering fragments of stone in all di-
rections. The stones are lying there still. The
little white toll-house, half destroyed by the ex-
plosion, wears the appearance of a new ruin, a
barricade, or some pile of rubbish. Cordage and
iron wires are drenched with water. The platform
of the bridge, sunk in the sand, water all about it,

112 Monday Tales,

looks like a huge wreck, surmounted by a red flag
to warn mariners; all that the Seine has to offer,
cut grass and mouldy planks, is caught here, as if
by a dam, eddying and whirling. There is a rent
in the landscape, an open wound that tells of dis-
aster. And to make the sight still sadder, the
poplars along the walk leading to the bridge have
been shorn of their leafage. All those beautiful
tufted poplars are literally devoured by larvae, for
trees themselves are subject to invasion. There is
not a single shoot to be seen on the branches, the
trees are cut, their foliage thinned. And through
the great avenue, useless and deserted now, big
white butterflies float lazily.

While waiting for the bridge to be rebuilt, a
ferry has been established near-by. It is an im-
mense raft, and upon it are ferried across horses
and carriages, plough-horses and ploughs, and cows
rolling their placid eyes at sight of the moving
waters. Beasts and equipages are placed in the
middle of the raft; on the sides, passengers of
various sorts, country people, children going to
school in the village, Parisians ofl" for a holiday.
Ribbons and veils flutter beside horses* tethers.
The little company upon the raft might have been
dropped from some wreck. The boat advances
slowly.

The passage across the Seine seems longer than
ever now, the river wider than before, and with the
ruins of that broken bridge in the foreground, the
horizon bounding those banks, each almost a
stranger to the other, expands with a sad solemnity.

The Ferry, 113

That morning I reached the ferry very early.
As yet there was no one on the bank. The ferry-
man's little house, an old van, standing in the
moist sand, was closed. It was dripping from the
fog. Children were coughing inside.

'' Hallo ! — Eugene ! "

*' Coming, coming ! " called the ferryman ; and he
came, dragging himself along. He was an excel-
lent ferryman, still young, but he had served in the
artillery during the last war, and he came out of it
crippled with rheumatism, the splinter of a shell in
his leg, his face all scarred. The brave fellow
smiled when he saw me.

"We shall have plenty of room this morning,
sir ! "

And indeed I was the only one on the ferry,
but before he had unfastened his rope more pas-
sengers arrived. First came a stout, bright-eyed
farmer's wife, going to market at Corbeil, with a
big basket upon each arm, which straightened her
rustic figure, and helped her to walk firmly and
erectly. Behind her, in the hollow road, came
others whose figures were seen indistinctly through
the mist, though their voices could be heard. One
of these voices was a woman's, gentle and tearful.

" Oh, Monsieur Chachignot, I beseech you, do
not press us so hard. You know he has work now.
Only give him time enough to pay you. That is
all he asks."

" I have given him time enough ; I have given
him altogether too long," answered the voice of an
old peasant. The words were mumbled through

8

114 Monday Tales,

his toothless jaws ; the tone of the voice was cruel.
^'The sheriff must tend to this matter now. He
may do as he chooses. Hallo ! — Eugene ! "

" 'T is that scoundrel, Chachignot," the ferry-
man whispered to 'me. " Here ! here ! "

At that moment I saw arrive upon the bank a
tall old man, tricked out in a frock-coat of coarse
cloth, and a silk hat very tall and very new. This
sunburned and wrinkled peasant, with his knotted
finger-joints, deformed by hard work, looked more
sunburned and sinister than ever, in the clothes of a
gentleman. Obstinacy stamped his features, and a
big hooked nose Hke an Apache Indian's, pinched
lips, and wrinkles that maliciousness had written
upon his face, lent to his countenance a ferocity
quite in keeping with the name of Chachignot.

'' Come, Eugene, make haste," he said, stepping
on to the ferry, his voice trembling with anger.
The farmer's wife approached him, as the ferry-
man was saying, '* What 's the matter. Father
Chachignot?"

"Oh! is it you, Blanche? Don't speak to me
about it. I am furious. Those beggarly Maziliers ! "
And he pointed out with his fist a tiny, stunted, dark
figure, going back along the hollow road, weeping.

'* What have these people done to vex you ? "

'* What have they done ? They owe me four
quarters' rent, and all my vintage besides, and I
can't get a single sou from them. And now I '11
put it in the sheriff's hands, -and he will throw the
blackguards into the street."

'' But this MaziHer is a worthy fellow. Perhaps it

The Ferry, 1 1 5

is not his fault that he cannot pay you. So many
people have lost so much through this war."

The old peasant exploded.

" He 's a fool ! He might have made his for-
tune with the Prussians, but he would n't do it,
not he ! From the day the Prussians arrived, he
closed his tavern, took down his sign. At other
cafes they Ve done a fine business during the war,
but he refused to sell a single sou's worth. Worse
even than that. He managed to get himself put
in prison through his insolence. He 's a fool, I
tell you. Why did he meddle with affairs that
were no concern of his? Was he one of the
military? All he had to do was to furnish wine
and brandy to his customers. Then he would
have been able to pay me, the rascal ! Well ! I '11
teach him how to play patriot ! "

And red with indignation, he moved about in
his frock-coat, in the clownish fashion of a country-
man used only to the blouse.

As he continued, the clear eyes of the farmer's
wife, filled a few moments before with compassion
for these Maziliers, grew hard and almost scornful.
She was a peasant herself, and such entertain no
very high opinion of those who refuse to make
money when opportunity offers. At first she had
said, " It's very hard for the wife," but a moment
later she observed, " Yes, that 's true, one should
not turn his back upon his luck." Her conclusion
was, " You are right, old man ; when one owes he
must pay." Chachignot repeated again and again
through his clenched teeth, —

ii6 Monday Tales,

'' He 's a fool ! He 's a fool ! ''

The ferryman, who was listening to them both,
although busied in steering the raft along with his
pole, felt that he ought to speak now.

'' Don't be so cruel, Father Chachignot ; what
good will it do you to go to the sheriff? What
would you gain by making these poor wretches
sell their all? Wait a little. You can afford to
do that."

The old man turned upon him as if bitten.

*' Yes, I 'd advise you to talk, you, a good-for-
nothing ! You are another of those patriots !

Is n't it a shame ? Five children and not a sou for
them, but he must amuse himself firing off cannons,
which no one compelled him to do ; and I put it
to you, monsieur " (I believe the miserable wretch
addressed myself!),'* what good has all that sort of
thing done us? Himself for example, what did he
gain by it? He got his face battered and lost a
good position he had. And now look at him, liv-
ing like a gypsy in a hole open to every wind that
blows, his children sickening from it, his wife
breaking her back over the wash-tub. Is n't he a
fool too?"

Anger flashed in the ferryman's eyes. I saw the
scar upon his wan face deepen, and grow whiter,
but he was able to restrain himself, and vented his
rage upon the pole, which he shoved into the sand
so roughly that he almost twisted it. A word more
might have cost him even the place he had, for
M. Chachignot is an authority in that part of the
country. He is one of the municipal council.

The Color SergeanL \\^

THE COLOR SERGEANT.

I.

The regiment was fighting upon an embank-
ment of the railroad, and served as a target for the
whole Prussian army, massed opposite them, under
shelter of the woods. Officers cried, " Lie down ! "
but no one was willing to obey, and the valiant
regiment remained standing at its post, grouped
about the ensign. Under that expanse of sky
reddened by the setting sun, with pasture-lands
and fields of ripening wheat in their rear, this body
of soldiers, harassed by the enemy, enveloped in
dense clouds of smoke, reminded one of a herd of
cattle surprised upon the open plain by the first
whirlwind announcing the approach of a terrible
storm.

A fire of shot and shell rained upon the talus
formed by the embankment. Nothing could be
heard but the crackling of the fusillade, the sound
of canteens falling heavily into the ditch, and
the lingering echo of bullets, which vibrated
from one end of the battlefield to the other, like
the tense strings of some sinister, resounding
instrument.

From time to time the flag, borne aloft above
all, stirred by the breath of the fusillade, fell amid

Ii8 Monday Tales,

clouds of smoke. And then, drowning the sound of
the firings, of the death-rattle and the curses of the
wounded, rose a stern and dauntless voice, " To
the flag, boys ! to the flag ! " And through the
red mist could be seen, dimly, the shadowy form
of an officer rushing forward, and the heroic ensign,
restored to life again, soared once more above the
field of battle.

Twenty-two times it fell; twenty-two times its
staff", still warm from the clasp of the dying hand
which relinquished it, was seized again, and borne
aloft, and when the sun had set, and all that re-
mained of the regiment, a mere handful of men,
slowly beat the retreat, all that was left of the flag
was a mere shred in the hands of Sergeant Hornus,
the twenty-third standard-bearer of that day.

II.

This Sergeant Hornus was an old fellow who
had served three terms, scarcely knew enough to
sign his own name, and had taken twenty years to
win his sergeant's stripes. All t^he wretchedness
of a foundling's life, all the brutahzing influences of
the barracks showed themselves in his low, over-
hanging forehead, and back bent beneath the con-
stant burden of his knapsack, — showed themselves
too in that stolid bearing characteristic of a soldier
in the ranks. And besides, he had a sHght impedi-
ment in his speech ; but to be color-sergeant does
not require much eloquence. The very evening of

The Color Sergeant. 1 1 9

the battle his colonel said to him, *' You have the
flag, my brave fellow; keep it."

And then, upon his poor field-cloak that had
weathered so many battles and storms, upon that
cloak all faded and worn, the cantiniere sewed the
golden stripe of a sub-lieutenant.

Henceforth that humble life had but one proud
aim. Suddenly the old soldier's form grew erect.
That poor creature, who had marched all his life
with bent shoulders and downcast eyes, from that
day bore himself boldly, his glance constantly up-
raised towards that bit of tattered cloth, that he
might see it fluttering above him, and carry it erect
and high — so high that not death, nor treason, nor
defeat could touch it.

You never saw a happier man than Hornus upon
the day when a battle occurred, his staff clasped
tightly in both hands, and firmly held in its
leather sheath. He never spoke, he scarcely
moved. He was as solemn as a priest. It seemed
as though he carried some consecrated thing. All
his energy, all his strength was in the fingers that
curled about that beautiful gilded tatter of a flag
against which the bullets rushed; his whole soul
flashed in the eyes which hurled defiance at the
Prussians, facing them squarely, with a look that
seemed to say, *' Come on ! Try to take it from
me ! " But no one made the attempt, not even
death itself. After Borny, after Gravelotte, the
most murderous battles of the campaign, the flag
emerged, gashed, rent, pierced with wounds, but
no one bore it for a moment except old Hornus.

I20 Monday Tales.

III.

Then September came, with the army before
Metz, — the blockade, and that long halt in the mire,
when the cannon rusted, while the first soldiers in
the world, demoralized by inaction, without food,
without news, died of fever and ennui at the foot
of their guns. Both commanders and soldiers had
lost all confidence ; not so old Hornus. He alone
still had faith. That tattered tricolor was all in all
to him, and as long as he perceived that it was still
there, he could not realize that anything had been
lost. Unfortunately, as there was no longer any
fighting, the colonel kept the colors in his own
quarters, outside Metz, and the brave Hornus was
almost like a mother that has put her child out to
nurse. He thought of his flag ceaselessly. And
when he grew weary and could endure it no longer,
he set out for Metz as fast as he could, and merely
because of the fact that he had seen it, and always
in the same place, resting quietly against the wall,
he returned thence full of courage and patience, and
under his wet tent dreamed dreams of battle and
of marching on to victory, with the tricolors un-
furled to the breeze, and floating yonder above
the Prussian trenches.

But one day, at an order of Marshal Bazaine's,
all these illusions crumbled. That morning, when
Hornus awoke, he found the entire camp in an up-
roar, the soldiers standing in groups, greatly ex-

The Color Sergeant I2l

cited and incensed, uttering cries of rage, and all
raising their clenched fists towards the same quar-
ter of the town, as though their anger were aimed
at one culprit alone. Cries of " Away with him !
Shoot him ! " were heard. They said what they
would. The officers did not attempt to hinder, but
walked apart from them, and with bent heads, as
if ashamed to look their men in the face. And
indeed there was cause for shame, for to one hun-
dred and fifty thousand men, well-armed and still
able for service, had just been read the marshal's
order, which handed them over to the enemy,
without even a combat.

*' And the colors?" demanded Hornus, growing
pale.

The colors were to be delivered with the rest,
the guns, what remained of the equipages, — in
short, everything.

" To . . . To . , . Tonnerre de Dieu ! " stam-
mered the poor man. " But they shall never have
mine ! " and he started on a run towards the city.

IV.

There, too, all was excitement and stir. Na-
tional guards, citizens, the militia were shouting
and gesticulating. Deputations passed by on their
way to the marshal murmuring as they went. But
Hornus saw and heard nothing of all this. He
was busy talking to himself, as he climbed the Rue
du Faubourg.

122 Monday Tales,

*^ Take my colors from me ! Ah ! we shall
see. Impossible ! Who has the right to do
that? Let him give to the Prussians what is
his to give, his gilded coaches, his silver plate
brought from Mexico ; but this thing is my own,
— it is my honor. I forbid any one to lay hands
upon it."

He ran so fast, and his tongue stuttered so, that
those bits of phrases were chopped in pieces. But
all the same, lodged somewhere in his brain, he
had an idea of his own, this old man ! And it
was clear enough, and it could not be driven out !
He had resolved to seize the colors, run into the
midst of the regiment with them, and rush upon
the Prussians, with all who were ready to follow
him.

When he reached the colonel's quarters, he was
not allowed to enter. The colonel, furious himself
at what had happened, would see no one. But
Hornus could not take this hint.

He swore, shouted, bullied the orderly, insisting,
" My colors ! I will have them ! "

Finally a window was opened.

" Is that you, Hornus? "

" Yes, my colonel, I."

" All the flags are at the Arsenal. You have only
to go there, and you will get a receipt."

" A receipt? What is that for?"

" It is the marshal's order."

"But, colonel — "

" Oh, get out ! and give us peace."

Old Hornus staggered like a drunken man.

The Color Sergeant, 123

" A receipt, a receipt," he repeated mechanically.
At last he set out again, understanding one thing
only, his colors were now at the Arsenal, and he
must recover them at any cost.

V.

The doors of the Arsenal stood wide open, that
the Prussians' wagons might pass. There they
waited, drawn up in line, in the courtyard. Hornus
shuddered, as he entered. All the other color-
bearers were there too, fifty or sixty officers, de-
jected and silent. And those sombre carts waiting
in the rain, the men grouped, bare-headed, behind
them ; there was something funereal about it all !

In one corner were heaped all the flags of
Bazaine's army, lying in utter confusion upon the
muddy pavement. Nothing was more saddening
than to see those gaudy shreds, those fragments of
gold fringe, carved staffs, all those glorious trap-
pings thrown upon the ground and soiled with
mud and rain. An officer in charge lifted them
one by one, and as his regiment was called each
color-bearer advanced for his receipt. Two Prus-
sian officers watched the loading of the flags, rigid
and unmoved.

And thus ye departed, O sacred shreds of Glory,
baring your wounds, trailing your folds along the
pavement, like a bird with broken wings. So ye
departed, bearing with you that shame which is the
portion of all beautiful things, once they have been
sullied ; and a bit of France herself went with the

124 Monday Tales,

going of each flag ; the sun of many a long day's
march still lingered in your faded folds, where the
mark of many a bullet guarded the memory of
the nameless dead, slain by the shots chance hurled
against the banner they defended.

" Hornus, it 's your turn. They are calling you.
Go and get your receipt."

As if he cared about that !

His flag was before him — his very own — the
most beautiful, the most mutilated of all, and as he
saw it again it seemed to him that he stood once
more upon the talus. He heard the bullets whistle,
the dented canteens, the voice of his colonel, " To
the flag, boys ! to the flag ! " There he saw his
twenty-two comrades stretched upon the field, and
he the twenty-third, rushing on to raise the colors,
to support the flag which tottered, for the arm that
had held it had relaxed its hold. Ah, on that day
he had sworn to defend, to protect that flag, even
unto death ! and now —

Thinking of that, all his heart's blood seemed to
surge to his brain. Intoxicated, dazed, he rushed
upon the Prussian officer, seized that beloved ensign,
and grasped it in both hands. He attempted to raise
it as of old, erect and highj crying, *'To the flag ! "
but his voice was lost in his throat. He felt the staff
tremble, slip from his hands. In that enervating,
deathlike atmosphere which weighs so heavily upon
a conquered city, the flag itself was powerless to
float ; no valiant heart could breathe such an atmos-
phere and live. Old Hornus fell to earth, as though
a stroke of lightning had crushed him.

The Death of Chauvin. 125

TK£ DEATH OF CHAUVIN.

One Sunday in August, travelling in a railway
ccach just at the beginning of what was then termed
the Hispano-Prussian Incident, I met him for the
first time. Although I had never seen him before,
I had no difficulty in recognizing him at once.
Tall, lean, grizzled, a fiery face, nose like a buz-
zard's beak, and rolling eyes with an angry flame
in them, and never relenting to amiability save for
the illustrious gentleman who sat in the corner,
decorated with the Cross of the Legion. As I
noted the low, narrow forehead, stamped with ob-
stinacy,— one of those foreheads which the same
thought, working ceaselessly and ever in the same
place, has at last dented with a single deep
wrinkle, — something of over-credulity in his bear-
ing, something of the poHtical precisian in his
manner, especially the terrific fashion in which he
rolled the letter " r" when speaking of ** Fr-r-rance,"
and of the " Fr-r-rench flag," caused me to exclaim
to myself, " Here is Chauvin ! "

And Chauvin indeed it was, Chauvin at his best,
declaiming, gesticulating, belaboring the Prussians
from the pages of his newspaper, Chauvin enter-
ing Berlin, his cane upraised, an intoxicated, deaf,
blind, furious lunatic. Conciliation or delay impos-
sible ! — War ! war ! at any cost !

126 Monday Tales.

" But what if we are not prepared for that,
Chauvin? "

" Monsieur, Frenchmen are always prepared for
anything ! " responded Chauvin, drawing himself
up to his full height; from beneath his bristhng
moustache, an explosion of /s rushed with such
energy that the windows fairly trembled.

Irritating, foolish personage ! How quickly I
understood all the jeers, all the jesting songs that
tradition had woven about his name, making a
celebrity of this absurd creature !

After that first meeting I swore I would flee
him, but through some singular fatality he seemed
ever to be dogging my footsteps. On the very
day in the Senate when M. de Grammont had
solemnly announced to our conscript-fathers,
" War is declared ! " in the midst of forced accla-
mations, a formidable cry of " Vive la France ! "
rose from the galleries. And looking upward near
the friezes, I saw Chauvin brandishing his lank
arms. Some days later I ran across him again in
the Opera, standing in Girardin's box, demanding
to hear " le Rhin Allemand," ^ and observing to the
singers who had not as yet learned that classic, ** To
learn it will take longer than to take it ! " ^

Soon it appeared that this ubiquitous Chauvin
had taken complete possession of Paris. Every-
where, at street-corners, on the boulevards, always
perched upon some bench or table, this absurd

1 Poem written in reply to Die Wacht am Rheiii. — Tr.

2 Chauvin puns: " II faudra done plus de temps pour Vaph
prendre que pour le prendre I ' ' — Tr.

The Death of Chauvin. 127

Chauvin appeared before me; wherever drums
were beating, flags floating, the strains of some
Marseillaise sounding, there was Chauvin, distribut-
ing cigars to the soldiers about to leave, hailing the
ambulances, that hot head of his rising above the
crowd, inciting them whilst he roared, clamored,
and invaded every spot, until it almost seemed that
there were six hundred thousand Chauvins in
Paris. Truly, one could not have escaped this
intolerable figure, unless he had shut himself up
at home, and locked doors and windows.

And how was it possible to remain in one place
after Wissembourg, Forbach, and all that series of
disasters which made that mournful month of
August seem like one long nightmare, with scarcely
a waking moment, the nightmare of a feverish, op-
pressive summer? How could one refrain from
mingling with that restless, moving multitude, run-
ning in search of news, of fresh bulletins, prome-
nading all night long beneath the gas-jets, their
faces full of terror and consternation. And no night
of all that I did not encounter Chauvin. He passed
along the boulevards, advancing from group to
group, delivering a peroration in the midst of a
silent crowd, — overflowing with hope, with good
news, sure of success despite everything, repeating
to you twenty times in succession that Bismarck's
white cuirassiers had been crushed to the last man !

Singular fact. Already Chauvin had ceased to
impress me as before. He no longer seemed to me
as ridiculous as of old. I did not believe a single
word he was saying, but what of that? It delighted

128 Monday Tales,

me merely to listen to him. In spite of his blind-
ness, his insane pride, his ignorance, there was in
this diabolical creature a passionate, persistent
energy which acted like a vital flame warming the
heart.

And we had need of such a flame, during the
long months of the siege, during that terrible win-
ter when we lived upon horse-flesh and bread fit
only for the dogs. The very aspect of Parisians
seemed to say, " Were it not for Chauvin, Paris
would not have held out for a week ! " From the
beginning Trochu had said, " They can enter when
they will ! "

" They will never enter ! " said Chauvin. Chau-
vin had faith, Trochu had none. What was that
to Chauvin? He still believed in notaries' plans,
in Bazaine, in sorties; every night he listened to
Chanzy's cannons booming at Etampe, the sharp-
shooters of Faidherbe behind Enghien, and, what
was most wonderful of all, even the rest of us heard
them, so deeply had the spirit of this heroic imbe-
cile entered our souls.

Brave Chauvin ! Who but he was ever the first
to sight in a sky livid, overhanging, and full of
snow, the tiny white wing of some carrier pigeon !
When Gambetta sent us one of his eloquent Taras-
connades, it was Chauvin's powerful voice that de-
claimed it at the door of every mairie. During
the keen December nights, when the long lines of
people stood shivering before the butchers' shops,
chilled and weary with waiting, Chauvin bravely
led the line, and thanks to him, that famished crov/d

The Death of Chauvin, 129

found they still had strength enough to laugh and
sing, and dance in the snow.

" Ley Ion, la, laissez-les passer, les Pritssiens dans
la Lorraine^' chanted Chauvin, and galoshes clat-
tered, beating time, and for a moment the warm
red of health returned to poor wan faces framed in
woollen hoods. Alas! of what avail was it all?
One evening, crossing Rue Drouot, I saw an anx-
ious crowd pressing silently towards the mairie, and
in that mighty Paris, where now not a light or a
carriage was to be seen, I heard the grandiloquent
voice of Chauvin, solemnly proclaiming, " We hold
the heights of Montretout ! " A week later, all
was over.

From that day Chauvin appeared to me only at
rare intervals. Two or three times I saw him on
the boulevard, gesticulating, talking of r-r-revenge,
— for that letter "r" still rolled upon his tongue.
But no one listened to him any longer. Fashion-
able Paris languished, pined for its former pleas-
ures ; laboring Paris was in no pleasant mood.
Vainly did poor Chauvin brandish his long arms ;
the former groups, instead of surrounding him,
scattered at his approach.

" A regular bore ! " said some. " Spy ! " cried
others. Then came the days of insurrection, of the
red flag, and the Commune, — Paris in the power
of riotous mobs. Chauvin, himself a suspect, no
longer dared to stir abroad. Then came the fa-
mous day when the Vendome Column was pulled
down. Of course he had to be there, in a corner
of the Place. The crowd guessed it was he. The

9

130 Monday Tales,

street-Arabs insulted him, though they did not see
him.

" Hallo ! there 's Chauvin ! " they exclaimed,
and when the Column fell, the Prussian officers,
drinking champagne before a window at head-
quarters, raised their glasses, roaring " Ha, ha, ha !
Mossie Chaufin."

Till the twenty-third of May, Chauvin gave no
further sign of Hfe. Crouching at the bottom of a
cellar, the unfortunate was reduced to despair when
he heard French shells go whizzing over the roofs
of Paris. At last one day, between two cannonades,
he ventured to set foot outside.

The street was deserted, and seemed wider than
when he had seen it last. On one side rose the
barricade, full of menace, with its cannons and red
flag, on the other two short chasseurs of Vincennes
advanced, keeping close to the wall, and stooping,
their guns pointed. The troops of Versailles had
just entered Paris.

Chauvin's heart bounded. " Vive la France ! "
he cried, darting towards the soldiers. His voice
was lost in the midst of a fusillade from opposite
sides. Through some sinister misunderstanding,
this unfortunate was a target for both sides, the
victim of a twofold hate which slew him. Upon
that road whose stones had been uptorn, his body
fell. It lay there for two days, with arms out-
stretched, and with rigid face.

Thus perished Chauvin, martyr of our civil wars.
He was the last Frenchman !

Alsace I Alsace! 131

0

ALSACE ! ALSACE !

I HAVE most delightful memories of a journey I
made some years ago through Alsace. Not that
insipid railroad-journey which leaves naught be-
hind but the recollection of a country cut by rails
and telegraph wires. My journey was afoot,
knapsack upon my shoulders, with a good, stout
stick for my comrade, and a companion who was
not too talkative. The best way to travel ; and
what vivid memories one retains of all he has seen
in that fashion !

Especially of late, now that Alsace is closed
against us, all my former impressions of that lost
land return to me. What delicious surprises
awaited one upon those long rambles through that
beautiful country, where the woods raised their
dark background like great, green curtains, in the
rear of peaceful villages flooded with sunshine !
Where, at some winding of the mountains, one
would sight belfry-towers and factories, well sup-
plied with streams, saw-mills, wind-mills, and here
and there some striking figure in unfamiliar cos-
tume, darting up from the fresh verdure of the
plain.

Every morning we were up with the sun.

" Mossi6, Mossi6 ! it is four o'clock ! " the inn-
servant would call to us. We jumped out of bed

132 Monday Tales,

quickly, and our knapsacks buckled, groped our
way down the frail little stairway, over which every
step echoed. Downstairs, before setting out we
drank a glass of kirsch in one of those big inn-
kitchens, where an early fire was kindling with a
crackling of twigs that brought to mind the remem-
brance of the fog clinging to damp windows.
We set out.

It requires an effort at first. At that early hour
all the weariness of the preceding night returns.
Our eyes, and the air as well, are full of slumber.
By degrees the damps of the early dew are scat-
tered, the morning mist evaporates in the sun.
Once started, we trudge on. When the heat be-
comes too oppressive, we halt, and breakfast by a
spring, or a brook, and then fall asleep in the grass,
lulled by the murmuring of the water. We are
awakened by the noise of a big bee which just
grazes us, whizzing by like a bullet. Cooler than
before, we set out again. After the sun has begun
to descend, the road does not seem as long as be-
fore. We seek a resting-place, an asylum for the
night, and thoroughly weary, fall asleep, sometimes
in the bed of an inn, sometimes in a barn left open,
at the foot of a haystack, in the open air, disturbed
by no other sounds than the murmur of birds, the
chirping of insects among the leaves, Hght, spring-
ing steps and silent flocks, all that nocturnal music
which, when one is very weary, falls upon his ear
as if part of a dream.

What were the names of those charming Alsatian
villages which we met at regular intervals at the

Alsace! Alsace! 133

road's end? I cannot now recall the name of one
of them, and in fact they all resembled each other
so closely, especially as we travelled through Haut-
Rhin, that after we had passed through a number
of them at different times, it did not seem to me
that we had seen more than one. There was the
main road, and the houses looking upon it all had
windows with tiny panes, encased in leaden frames,
garlanded with hop and rose vines ; over the lat-
ticed gates leaned old men, smoking their big pipes,
or women stooped, calling their children, playing
upon the road. In the morning when we passed
by, all was wrapped in slumber ; we could scarcely
hear the rustling of straw in the stables, or the
panting breath of the dogs under the gates.

The village we reached two leagues further on
is just awaking. The sound of the opening of
shutters is heard, the splashing of bucketfuls of
water ; gutters overflow ; the cows troop lazily to
the watering-troughs, brushing away the flies with
their long tails. Farther on, the next village looks
just like the preceding one, but about it broods the
deep silence of a summer afternoon, interrupted
only by the drowsy sing-song of the village school,
and the monotonous hum of bees scaling the
clambering vines which reached to the very top of
each chalet. And always one is sure of lighting
upon some little corner which reminds him that
the village is merely a part of the province, —
sometimes a white, two-story house with a new, shin-
ing insurance-sign upon it, or one sights a notary's
scutcheon, or a doctor's bell. The passer-by

1 34 Monday Tales.

hears the notes of a piano, and strains of a waltz,
somewhat antiquated it is true, float to him through
the green blinds, as he stands upon the sunny
road. Later, twilight descends; the cattle come
home, spinners are returning, all is bustle and com-
motion ! The doorways are full of people, troops
of little flaxen-heads in the streets. The windows
are aflame with the last ray of the dying sun, com-
ing one knows not whence.

I still recall with delight a Sabbath morning in
an Alsatian village, — service-time, the streets de-
serted, the houses emptied, but here and there an
old man sunning himself before some doorway;
the church full of people, and, streaming through
its panes, the delicate rose-tints of tapers burning
by day, — the plain-chant coming in fitful bursts
along the passage, a choir-boy in scarlet cassock
hurriedly crossing the Place, bare-headed, censer
in hand, to get a light at the baker's shop.

Sometimes for whole days we would not enter
a single village. We sought the shade of many
a coppice, of untrodden byways and delicate
thickets fringing the Rhine, spots where its beau-
tiful green waters were lost in marsh land swarming
with insects. Through the slender tracery of many
a branch we could see the great river for miles
and miles, laden with rafts, floats loaded with grass
cut on the islands, and seeming themselves like
tiny floating islands borne on by the current;
farther on, the canal leading from the Rhone to
the Rhine — with its long border of poplars, their
green tops almost touching each other, reflected

Alsace! Alsace! 135

in those familiar waters, narrowed, hemmed in by
artificial banks. Here and there the small lodge
of the lock-keeper was seen, and children running
barefoot over the bars of the lock, and amidst
splashing of foam huge floats loaded with wood
advanced slowly across the entire breadth of the
canal.

After we had had enough of zigzag and rambling
paths, we would retrace our steps along the white
main road which leads straight towards Basle, a
cool, refreshing road, shaded by walnut trees — the
chain of the Vosges on the right, the Black Forest
on the opposite side.

And when the July sun grew too oppressive, oh !
what delightful halts I have made at the edge of
that road leading to Basle, stretched at full length
in the dry grass of some ditch, listening to the
music of partridges calling from field to field, and
overhead the main road with its dismal sounds —
a carter's oath, a passing bell, the creaking of an
axle, the sound of a pickaxe breaking stones, the
hurried gallop of a gendarme, — at which a flock of
geese scatter in terror, — peddlers bent beneath
their packs, the letter-carrier, his blue blouse
trimmed with red braid, suddenly leaving the high-
way, to disappear from sight upon a little cross-
road bordered with wild hedges, at the end of
which one feels sure of coming upon a hamlet, a
farmhouse, an isolated life.

And then those delightful surprises of a journey
afoot, — those short cuts that lengthen indefi-
nitely, the deceptive tracks of carriage-wheels, the

1 36 Monday Tales.

trail of horses' hoofs which lead straight to some
field, the deaf gates which will not open at your
call, the inns full of people when you arrive — and
the sudden shower, that delicious summer-shower
which the warm air evaporates so quickly, though
the steaming plains, the fleece of flocks, and even
the herdsman's coat attest its presence.

I remember how a terrific storm surprised us
in this fashion as we were crossing the woods,
descending the Ballon d'Alsace. As we quitted
the inn at its summit, the clouds were literally
beneath us. A few pines raised their tops above
them, but as we descended we actually entered a
land of wind and rain and hail. Soon we were
imprisoned, enmeshed in a perfect network of
lightnings. Almost at our feet a fir fell with a
crash, struck by Hghtning; and whilst we went
tumbling down a short schlitage, we saw through a
film of gushing water a group of tiny maidens who
had sought shelter amongst the rocks. Terrified,
pressing closely against each other, their hands had
all they could do to hold their calico aprons and
their small wicker-baskets filled with black bilberries
freshly picked. On each tiny berry glistened a
point of light, and the little black eyes which
darted at us from that hiding-place in the rocks
resembled those shining berries. The great fir
lying prone upon the descent, the reverberation of
the thunder, the sight of these tiny rovers of the
forest so charming in their tatters, — it all reminded
one of some tale of Canon Schmidt's.

And what a delightful flame welcomed us when

Alsace! Alsace! 137

we reached Rouge-Goutte ! What a splendid fire
to dry our clothing, while we heard an omelette
crackling, — that inimitable omelette of Alsace,
crisp and golden as a cake.

The morning after the storm I saw a sight which
impressed me.

On the road to Dannemarie at a turn of the
hedge was a magnificent field of wheat, cut down,
despoiled, soaked with the rain, its broken stalks
spreading upon the ground in all directions. The
heavy and ripened ears had dropped their treasure
in the mud, and hosts of tiny birds were feeding
upon that lost harvesting, hopping about the
hollows filled with wet straw, scattering the wheat
far and wide. A sinister sight, this pillaging
beneath that clear sky and in the bright sunshine.
Regarding his ruined field, stood a great, tall
peasant, bent in figure, clothed in the costume of
ancient Alsace. Genuine sorrow could be read
upon his features, yet at the same time a certain
calm and resignation and I know not what vague
hope — as if he would tell himself that though his
harvest was despoiled, the, earth beneath belonged
to him always, — fertile, quickening, faithful, and
that while the soil remained his own he need not
despair.

138 Monday Tales.

(S>

THE CARAVANSARY.

I CANNOT recall without a smile the sense of dis-
enchantment I experienced on catching my first
glimpse of an Algerian caravansary. That de-
lightful word, which casts a spell over all the
Oriental and enchanted Land of the Thousand and
One Nights, had conjured in my imagination long
vistas of arched galleries, Moorish courts planted
with palm trees, cool and refreshing streamlets
dripping, with melancholy music, upon mosaic
pavements, and everywhere, stretched upon mats,
travellers in Turkish slippers, smoking their pipes
in the shade of some terrace, while from caravans
halting under the noonday sun, arose the heavy
odor of musk, of scorched leather, attar of roses,
and golden tobacco.

^ Words are always more poetic than the objects
they describe. Instead of the caravansary I
imagined, I found an ancient inn, of the Ile-de-
France type, located on the highway, a stopping-
place for carriers and post-chaises, with its branch
of holly, its stone bench at the doorway, and sur-
rounded with courtyards, sheds, barns, and stables.

Far enough removed it was from my dream of
the Thousand and One Nights, but after the first
sense of disillusion had passed away, I was quick

The Caravansary, 139

to perceive the picturesque charm of this out-of-
the-way Prankish inn, a hundred leagues from
Algiers, and standing in the midst of an immense
plain, against which rose in relief innumerable tiny
hills, crowding closely together, and blue as the
waves of the sea. On one hand, a pastoral of the
Orient fields of maize, a stream bordered with
oleander, and rising here and there the white
cupola of some ancient tomb ; on the other side,
the main road, lending the bustle and animation
of European life to this Old Testament scene. It
was this blending of the Orient with the Occident,
this flavor of modern Algeria, which gave to the
caravansary of Madame Schontz such an amusing
and original physiognomy.

I can still see the Tlemcen diligence entering the
grand courtyard, in the midst of camels squatted
about, heavy laden with burnouses and ostrich eggs.
In the sheds negroes are making their couscous,
planters are unpacking a model plough, and Mal-
tese are playing cards upon a wheat-measure.
Travellers alight, and fresh relays of horses are
brought. The courtyard is completely blocked.
A red-coated spahi is performing 2i fantasia for the
benefit of the maids of the inn. Two gendarmes
have halted in front of the kitchen, and are drain-
ing a bumper without dismounting. In a corner
some Algerian Jews in blue hose, and caps on their
heads, are sleeping upon woollen bales, waiting
for the market to open ; for twice a week the
Arabs hold a great fair before the walls of the
caravansary.

140 Monday Tales,

On those days, when I opened my windows I
saw before me a forest of tents scattered about in
confusion, a surging, clamorous crowd in gay
colors; the red chechias of the Kabyles blazed
like wild poppies in a field, and until evening there
were continual cries, disputes, and a swarm of
dusky figures moved back and forth in the sun-
light. As twilight came on, they folded their
tents ; men, horses, and all disappeared, as might
one of those tiny worlds of innumerable motes
which are lodged in a sunbeam. The plateau was
deserted, the plain grew silent again, and the twi-
light of the Orient tinged the sky with its tender
iris-tints, as fugitive as the colors upon a soap-
bubble. For ten minutes the sky was tinged with
rose. There was, I remember, at the entrance to
the caravansary, an old well, and it was so com-
pletely bathed in the glimmering sunset that its
well-worn curbstone seemed to be of rosy marble ;
the well-bucket looked a flame, and drops of fire
glistened upon the rope. Then that wonderful
light, like the flashing of rubies, died down, and
Hlac hues grew in the sky. These too faded out,
and the sky became dark and sombre. Indistinct
sounds began to traverse the plain, and suddenly
in the silence and darkness burst forth the savage
music of an African night, — the bewildered clamor
of storks, the barking of jackals and hyenas, and
at long intervals a sullen roar almost solemn, which
made the horses quiver in their stables, the camels
tremble in their sheds.

Oh ! how pleasant it seemed, after shivering

The Caravansary, 141

amid the hosts of darkness, to emerge, and to
descend into the dining-room of the caravansary,
and find there laughter, warmth, Hght, and the
charming display of fresh linen and sparkling
crystal which is so in keeping with French
taste. And to do the honors of the table, were
Madame Schontz, an ancient Mulhouse beauty,
and pretty Mademoiselle Schontz, her blooming
cheeks slightly tanned, her Alsacian head-dress
with its black tulle wings reminding one of a wild
rose of Guebviller or Rouge-Goutte upon which
a butterfly had alighted. Was it the charm of the
young girl's eyes? Was it because of that hght
Alsatian wine which her mother poured for you
at dessert, sparkling and golden as champagne?
Certain it is that the dinners of this caravansary
were famed far and wide among the camps of the
South; sky-blue tunics mingled with the short
coats of hussars, braided and decorated with frogs,
and far into the night lights might be seen burning
in the windows of the great inn. ,

The repast ended, the table removed, the old
piano which had peacefully slumbered in a corner
for twenty years, was opened and French airs were
played, or to a Lauterbach of some sort, a young
Werther, sabretache at his side, would dance a
waltz with Mademoiselle Schontz, In the midst of
the somewhat noisy, military gayety, the rattling of
aiguillettes, of long-swords and brandy-glasses, rose
the languorous rhythm of the dance, two hearts
beating in unison to its measure and absorbed in
the mazes of the waltz, their vows of eternal love

142 Monday Tales,

ceasing only with the last strain. It would be hard
to picture a more charming scene.

Sometimes, of an evening, the great double-door
of the inn would open, and horses pranced into the
courtyard. It was some aga of the neighborhood,
who, wearying of his wives, desired to taste of oc-
cidental life, listen to the piano of the roumis, and
drink the wine of France. " One drop of wine is ac-
cursed,'' says Mohammed in the Koran, but there
are compromises even with the Law. As each
glass was poured him, the aga, before drinking,
took one drop upon his finger, shook it off gravely,
and, that accursed drop once disposed of, he drank
the rest without compunction of conscience. Then,
quite dazed by the music and the lights, the Arab
would recline upon the floor, enveloped in his bur-
nous, — not uttering a word, but showing his white
teeth with a laugh, and following the whirls of the
dance with kindling eyes.

Alas ! where are they now, — Mademoiselle
Schontz's partners in the dance? Where are the
sky-blue tunics, the charming hussars, with slender
waists? Sleeping in the hop-fields of Wissenbourg,
in the grassy meadows of Gravelotte. And no one
comes now to drink the light wine of Alsace at
Madame Schontz's caravansary. Both women are
gone ; they died, musket in hand, defending their
inn, set on fire by the Arabs. Of the ancient
hostelry once so full of life, nothing remains but
the walls, the great crumbling framework of a build-
ing, so suggestive of death : these are still standing,
but they are completely calcined. Jackals prowl

The Caravansary, 143

about in the courtyards. Here and there the frag-
ment of a stable or a shed, which the flames have
spared, rises Hke a hving apparition, and the wind,
that wind of evil omen, which for two years has
stormed against our unhappy France, sweeping
from the farthermost borders of the Rhine unto
Laghouat, rushing from the Saar to the Sahara,
passes on filled with plaintive echoes, wails
through the ruins of the caravansary, beating
against its gates mournfully.

144 Monday' Tales,

DECORATED THE FIFTEENTH OF
AUGUST.

One evening in Algeria, at the close of a day's
hunt, a violent storm surprised me on the plain of
Chelif, at some leagues from Orleansville. No-
where the shade of a village or even of a caravan-
sary in sight. Nothing but dwarf-palms, lentisk-
thickets, and great stretches of plough-land reaching
as far as eye could see. Moreover, the Chelif,
swollen by the shower, had begun to roll in an
alarming fashion, and I stood in some danger of
passing the night out in a swamp. Fortunately,
the civil-interpreter of the Bureau at Milianah, who
accompanied me, chanced to remember that quite
near us, hidden behind a slight elevation, there was
a tribe whose aga he knew, and we decided to go
thither, and throw ourselves upon his hospitality
for a night.

These Arab villages of the plain are so com-
pletely concealed among cactuses and Barbary fig-
trees, their gourhis of dried earth are built so close
to the ground, that we were in the midst of the vil-
lage before we had perceived it. Was it the hour,
the rain, the intense silence that impressed me? I
do not know, but an air of sadness seemed to brood
over the land, as if the burden of some terrible
anxiety had suspended every activity. All about,

Decorated the Fifteenth of August, 145

scattered in the fields, was the neglected harvest.
The wheat and barley had been gathered elsewhere,
but here it was rotting upon the ground. Rusted
ploughs and harrows lay about in the rain, appar-
ently forgotten. All the tribe seemed to wear the
same air of sadness, raggedness, and indifference.
The dogs scarcely barked at our approach. From
time to time, from within one of the gourbis, were
heard the cries of a child, and a boy's shaven head,
or the ragged haik of an old man could be seen in
the thicket. Here and there young asses stood
shivering among the bushes ; but not a man, not a
horse, was in sight ; it seemed as if one had fallen
upon war-times, as if every cavalier had departed
from the place months before.

The aga's house, a species of long farm-building,
with white walls and without windows, seemed as
destitute of life as were the surroundings. We
found the stables open, boxes and mangers empty,
and not a groom in sight to receive our horses.

" Let us go into the Moorish caf6," said my com-
panion. The caf^ inaure of an Arabian castellan
serves as a sort of reception-salon, a house within
a house, reserved for transient guests, — a place
where these good Mussulmans, courteous and affable
to an extreme, find opportunity to exercise their
hospitable virtues, while preserving that privacy
of family life which the Law commands. The caf^
maure of Aga Si-Sliman was open and silent, like
the stables. The high walls were coated with
lime, decorated with trophies of war and ostrich-
feathers ; a long low divan ran about the hall, and

10

146 Monday Tales,

it was dripping from the torrents of rain with which
the storm had pelted the entrance. Yet the cafe
was not empty. First we saw the cafetier himself,
an old Kabyle, in tatters, squatting with his head
between his knees, beside a brazier turned upside
down. Then we caught a ghmpse of the aga's
son, a beautiful boy, but feverish and pale ; he re-
clined upon the divan, rolled up in a black burnous,
two great greyhounds at his feet.

As we entered, there was no sound or sign of
life. At the utmost, the head of one of the grey-
hounds may have moved, the boy perhaps deigned
to glance in our direction, his beautiful dark eyes
feverish and languid.

" And Si-Shman, where is he ? " asked the inter-
preter.

The old servant made a vague motion of the
head in the direction of the horizon. The gesture
seemed to say that his master had gone far, very
far. We understood that Si-Sliman had departed
upon some long and important journey, but as the
rain would not permit of our setting out again, the
interpreter, addressing a few words in Arabic to
the aga's son, told him that we were friends of his
father, and asked shelter for the night. The boy
at once rose, and in spite of the fever which was
consuming him, gave orders to the cafetier; then
motioning us towards the divan, with a courteous
air that seemed to say, " You are my guests,"
he saluted us, Arab-fashion, his head bowed, a
kiss at the tip of his fingers, and wrapping his
burnous proudly about him, left the hall with all

Decorated the Fifteenth of August, 147

the gravity of one who was an aga and master
of the house.

Left behind, the cafetier rehghted his brazier, set
upon it two boilers of microscopic size, and whilst
he was making the coffee, we sought to obtain from
him some details concerning his master's voyage,
and the cause of the wretched condition of the tribe.
The Kabyle spoke quickly, with the gestures of an
old woman, but in a beautiful guttural, which was
sometimes precipitated, sometimes interrupted by
fits of silence, when we could hear the rain drop-
ping upon the mosaic of the interior courtyards,
the boilers singing, and the barking of jackals,
scattered in thousands upon the plain.

This is what had befallen the unfortunate Si-
SHman. Four months before, on the 15th of
August, he had received that famous decoration of
the Legion of Honor, which he had awaited many
years. He was the only aga of the province who
had not already received it. All the others were
knights, officers ; two or three even wore about
their haiks the big ribbon of Commander, and
blew their noses upon it, innocently enough (many
a time have I seen Bach' Aga Boualem make this
use of his ribbon). What had prevented Si-
Sliman from receiving the decoration was a quarrel
he had had with his chef de bureau arabe, over a
game of cards, and the military fraternity is so
all-powerful in Algeria that, although the name of
the aga had for ten years stood upon the list of
proposed recipients, it was all to no avail. Conse-
quently you can perhaps imagine the joy of brave

148 Monday Tales,

Si-Sliman when, the morning of the 15th of August,
a spahi from Orleansville came to bring him the tiny-
gilded casket containing the brevet of Legionary, and
Bai'a, best-beloved of his four wives, fastened upon
his camel's-hair burnous the cross of France. This
furnished the tribe with the occasion for numerous
revels and interminable fantasias. All night long,
tambourines and reed-pipes resounded. There
were dances, rejoicings, bonfires; I know not how
many sheep were slain for the feast ; and that noth-
ing might be lacking on the occasion, a famous im-
provisator of Djendel composed in honor of Si-
Sliman a magnificent cantata which began thus :

" Saddle thy coursers, O Wind !
Bear the glad tidings afar ! "

The next morning, at break of day, Si-Sliman
called to arms his contingent forces, both the ordi-
nary and the reserve, and set out for Algiers with
his cavaliers, that he might thank the governor in
person. At the gates of the city his band paused
according to custom. The aga presented himself
unaccompanied at the Government Palace, saw the
Duke of Malakoff, and assured the latter of his
devotion to France, in a few pompous phrases of
that Oriental style which is considered figurative
and poetic, since for three thousand years it has
hkened all youths to palm trees, all women to
gazelles. Having performed his duty at the palace,
he proceeded to the upper town, permitting him-
self to be seen paying his devotions to the mosque
as he passed on, distributing silver among the

Decorated the Fiftee7ith of August, 149

poor, visiting barbers and embroiderers, buying
for his wives perfumed waters, brocaded, flowered
silks, blue corselets adorned with golden passe-
menterie, and red cavalier's-boots for his young
aga, paying for everything without questioning the
price, and scattering his joy abroad in beautiful
douros. He was to be seen in the bazaars, seated
upon Smyrna rugs, drinking coffee at the doors of
Moorish shops, the shop-keepers offering him con-
gratulations. A crowd pressed about him curiously,
whispering, " Look ! that is Si-Sliman ! The
Emherour has just sent him the Cross." And
many a little Morisca, returning from the bath and
nibbling pastry, from beneath her white veil sent
prolonged glances of admiration towards that beau-
tiful new silver cross worn so proudly. Ah ! life
has indeed its great moments !

Evening come, Si-Sliman prepared to rejoin his
band, and he had just mounted when a chaouch
from the prefecture rushed towards him, quite out
of breath.

" Here you are, Si-SHman ! — I have been hunt-
ing for you everywhere. Be quick ! The governor
wishes to speak with you."

Si-Sliman followed him, not disquieted in the
least. But in crossing the Moorish courtyard of
the palace he chanced to encounter his chef de
bureau Arabe, who regarded him with an evil smile.
That smile upon the face of an enemy terrified him,
and he trembled as he entered the governor's
chamber. The marshal, sitting astride a chair,
received him.

1 50 Monday Tales,

" Si-Sllman ! " he said with his usual brutality,
and in that famous nasal voice that ever caused
those about him to tremble, "■ Si-Sliman, my boy,
I am very sorry. There has been a mistake. The
decoration was not intended for you at all. It was
for the kaid of the Zoug-Zougs. You must return
the cross. "

The beautiful bronze face of the aga was tinged
with sudden red, as if from the reflection of some
forge fire. A convulsive movement shook his tall
body. His eyes flamed. But the flash lasted
only for a second. His eyes were lowered almost
instantly; he bowed before the governor.

" Thou art master here, my Lord," he said, and
unfastening the cross from his breast, he placed it
upon a table. His hands trembled. Tears quiv-
ered at the end of his long eyelashes. Even old
Pelissier was touched.

" Come, come, my brave, you will receive it
next year ; " and he extended his hand with an air
almost friendly. The aga feigned that he did not
see it, bowed without responding, and departed.
He knew just how much value to attach to this
promise of the marshal's, and suddenly realized that
a mere bureau intrigue had brought this humilia-
tion upon him.

News of his disgrace had already spread through
the city. The Jews of Rue Bab-Azoun chuckled
as they saw him pass. The Moorish merchants, on
the contrary, looked away from him, pity sLamped
upon their faces ; and it was this very pity that
pained him more than the sneers of the others.

Decorated the Fifteenth of August,, 151

He hastened on, keeping close to the walls, seeking
the lanes that were darkest, most secluded. The
spot from which his cross had been plucked
seemed to burn him, as though an open wound
were there. And all the time he thought to him-
self, ** What will my horsemen say ? What will my
wives say ? "

Then followed wild outbursts of rage. He im-
agined himself waging a holy war yonder, upon
the frontiers of Maroc ever reddened with incen-
diary fires and battle, or rushing through the streets
of Algiers at the head of his band, pillaging the
Jews, massacring the Christians, and at length slain
himself, amidst a general tumult in which his
shame should be blotted out. All these things
seemed to him far less impossible than to return to
his tribe. Suddenly, in the midst of his schemes
of vengeance, a thought of the Emperor occurred
to him like a sudden gleam of light.

The Emperor ! For Si-Sliman, as for all the
Arabs, that name was the embodiment of the high-
est justice and power. For these Mussulmans of
the decadence he was the true pillar of their faith ;
that other head at Stamboul appeared to these dis-
tant sons as an imaginary being, a sort of invisi-
ble pope who had preserved for himself no other
power than the purely spiritual. And in the
Hegira of to-day, we know how much value that
power possesses.

But the Emberoiir, with his big cannon, his
zouaves, his iron-clad navy ! From the moment
he thought of the Emperor, he felt that he was

152 Monday Tales,

saved. Surely the Emperor would restore Si-
Sliman's cross to him. There would be a week's
journey, but he was so sure of the result that he
desired his band to remain at the gates of Algiers
to await his return. The packet-boat left the next
day, bearing him towards Paris, and he was as
serene and composed as though departing on a
pilgrimage to Mecca.

Poor Si-Sliman ! Four months ago he left, and
the letters he sends to his wives do not hint of
return as yet. For four months the unhappy aga
has been wandering through the fogs of Paris, his
days spent in running from one department to
another, laughed at everywhere, caught within the
formidable machinery of the French Administra-
tion, sent from bureau to bureau, soiling his bur-
nouses against the wood-boxes of antechambers,
anxiously awaiting an interview that will never
come ; and in the evening he is seen again — his
tall, sombre figure ridiculous because of its very
majesty — waiting for a key in the office of some
lodging-house; and then he ascends to his own
room, weary with tramping, with attempts that
came to nothing, but lofty and proud as ever,
clinging to a last hope, as furious in his zeal as
some gambler who has staked his all, in pursuit of
his honor.

All this time his cavaliers squatted about the
Porte Bab-Azoun await him with the true Oriental
fatalism of their race. His horses, tied to their
pickets, neigh towards the sea. Among the tribe,
all is suspense. The harvests rot upon the ground

Decorated the Fifteenth of August. 153

for want of arms to gather them. Women and
children count the days, their eyes ever turned
towards Paris. And it is pathetic to see what ruin,
how many hopes, how many fears, hang by that
bit of red ribbon. And when will it all end?

*' God alone knows," said the cafetier with a
sigh, and looking through the open door he
pointed with his bare arm across the sombre plain
wrapped in violet mists, pointed towards the pale
and slender crescent of the moon, cHmbing a
cloudy sky.

154 Monday Tales,

MY KfiPI.

This morning I came across it again, where it
had lain forgotten at the bottom of a closet ; it was
dust-stained, frayed at the edges, the figures were
rusted, the color had faded, and it was almost
shapeless. I could scarcely restrain a smile, and
exclaimed, —

" Ah ! There you are, my kepi."

And suddenly I remembered that day towards
the end of autumn, the warmth of the sunshine, the
kindhng of enthusiasm, — how I had gone down
the street, proud of my new head- gear, knocking
my gun against the shop-windows, as I went on
my way to join the battalions of the Quarter and
do service as citizen-soldier ! Ah ! he who had
told me then that I was not going to save Paris,
deliver France by my own unaided strength, would
certainly have run the risk of receiving the point
of my bayonet straight in the stomach.

There was such absolute faith in the national
guard. In the public gardens and squares, along
the avenues, at every corner, companies were gather-
ing and numbering, — long lines in which blouses
and uniforms, caps and kepis, were seen side by
side, for there was great haste. Every morn-
ing we who were new recruits assembled upon the

My Kepi, 155

Place, beneath the low arcades, standing at the
great gates in the draught and fog. After the roll-
call, where hundreds of incongruous names mingled
in a grotesque chaplet, the drill began. Arms
straight at the sides, teeth clenched, the various
divisions set out, keeping step, '* Left, right ! left,
right ! " and short and tall, infirm, poseurs, figures
clad in uniforms that brought back memories of
the stage, some of the new soldiers encumbered
with immense blue bands that gave them the
appearance of choristers, — all of us, however dif-
ferent our uniforms were, marched and faced about
within our limited space with the utmost spirits
and confidence.

All this would have seemed absurd enough had
it not been for the deep bass of the cannon, a
continual accompaniment, which lent freedom and
scope to our manoeuvres, drowned many a shrill
and feeble command, atoned for many an awk-
wardness, many a blunder, and in this great melo-
drama of Paris Besieged lent just that sort of
stage-music which proves itself so effective in the
theatre, when the pathetic is to be added to a
situation.

Finest sight of all when we mounted to the
rampart! I still can picture myself on those
foggy mornings, passing proudly before the
Colonne de Juillet, and paying it military honors.
" Carry — arms ! " And then those long streets of
Charenne, full of people, those slippery pavements
where it was so difficult to mark step. Approach-
ing the bastions, our drums would beat the charge,

156 Monday Tales,

Ran! Ran! I fancy now I am in the midst of it
all again. It was so enchanting, that frontier of
Paris, the green taluses with excavations for the
cannon, the open tents full of animation, the
smoke of bivouac fires, figures darkly outlined on
the heights, — looking so diminutive as they wan-
dered back and forth, — the tops of kepis, and the
points of bayonets rising here and there above the
bags piled about.

Oh ! my first night on guard, groping my way in
the dark, in the rain, while the patrol passed on,
jostling each other on the wet embankment, slip-
ping out one by one, and leaving me, the last,
perched above the Porte Montreuil at a formidable
height. What beastly weather it was that night !
In the deep silence that enfolded city and country
nothing could be heard but the wind sweeping
over the ramparts, making the sentinels bend be-
fore it, carrying away the password, and causing
the panes of an old street-lamp on the road at the
foot of the talus to rattle dismally. That infernal
street-lamp ! Every time I heard it I fancied it
was the sabre of an Uhlan rattling, and I remained
there, supporting arms, — "Who goes there?"
ever on my lips. Then the rain grew colder. The
gray of dawn began to appear in the direction of
Paris. A tower, a cupola, could be distinguished.
A cab was heard rumbling in the distance, a bell
struck. The mighty city awoke from slumber, and
shivering at the first moment of awaking, tossed
about and gave signs of returning life, A cock
crowed on the opposite side of the talus. At my

My Kepi. 157

feet, beneath the still dark road over which my
rounds were made, a sound of footsteps was heard,
a rattling of iron, and in reply to my " Halt ! who
goes there ? " uttered in a terrible tone, rose a
little, timid, tremulous voice reaching me through
the fog, —

*' A woman selling coffee."

You smile? But what could be expected of us?
These were the first days of the siege, and we
fancied to ourselves, poor raw militia that we were,
we imagined that the Prussians, under fire from the
forts, would come to the foot of the ramparts, set
their ladders there and scale them some fine night,
in the midst of huzzas, with port fires moving to
and fro in the darkness. Imagination anticipating
such things as these, you can conceive that
there were frequent alarms. Scarcely a night that
the cry " To arms ! to arms ! " did not startle us
from our sleep. Then men would shove and jostle
each other in their haste to reach their guns, over-
turning them, while the startled officers exclaimed,
" Keep cool ! keep cool ! " endeavoring thus to
calm themselves. Later, at daybreak, we would
perhaps discover that the enemy had been merely
a runaway horse, capering about the fortification
and nibbling the grass of the talus, and that our
imaginations had mistaken one innocent animal for
a whole troop of white cuirassiers, allowing it to
serve as a target for an entire bastion in arms.

All these things my kepi recalled to me — multi-
tudinous emotions, various adventures and scenes :
Nanterre, la Corneuve, le Moulin-Saquet, and

158 Monday Tales,

that delightful bend of the Marne where the in-
trepid Ninety-sixth saw fire for the first and last
time. The Prussian batteries faced us, planted at
the end of a road behind a thicket, and the smoke
rising through the branches reminded one of some
tranquil hamlet. Upon the unprotected track of
the railroad where our chiefs had forgotten us,
shells rained upon us with loud and terrible force,
and ominous flashes were seen. Ah ! my poor
kepi, there was no boasting that day, and again
and again you made the military salute, lower per-
haps than was fitting.

No matter ! those are dehghtful memories ; it is
all slightly grotesque, no doubt, — still, a feather in
the cap of patriotism. But alas ! you recall other
memories ! Unhappily there were also those night-
watches in Paris, our post some shop that was to
let; within, the suffocating heat of a stove, the
shiny benches; there were monotonous watches
before the doors of some mairiey the Place covered
with the slush of winter, which, melting, reflected the
city in its gutters. While doing police-duty in the
streets amid puddles of water, we would carry off
drunken soldiers who had lost their way, women,
and thieves ; in the gray light of early morning we
would return to our quarters weary, covered with
dust, the smell of pipes and petroleum clinging to
our clothing. And then there were those long
days so foolishly spent, with elections of officers,
attended by lengthy discussions, the tittle-tattle of
each company, the farewell punches, and round
upon round of brandy, men explaining each to the

My Kepi, 159

other the plan of campaign, using matches to make
their explanations clearer; there was the excite-
ment of voting. Politics entered upon the scene,
with her sister, righteous idleness. Hours were
spent merely in lounging; difficult indeed to know
what to do with one's self! And all that time wasted
weighed upon a man as if he were surrounded by a
lifeless atmosphere, making him desire to gesticu-
late, to Iceep in motion. There were hunts for
spies, men entertained absurd suspicions of each
other, and confidence equally exaggerated ; they
dreamed of a sortie en masse, of making a breach ;
all the follies and delirium of an imprisoned people
had sway. These were the memories, hideous kepi,
that returned to me at sight of you. You too had
your share in all these follies, and if on the day
after Buzenval I had not tossed you to the top of
a closet, had I done as so many others, who in-
sisted on keeping their kepis, decorating them with
immortelles and gold stripes, merely to remain an
odd number in some scattered battalion, who
knows upon what barricade you might have
dragged me at last? Ah! decidedly, k^pi of revolt
and indiscipline, kepi of idleness and drunkenness,
of club life and gossip, kepi of civil war, you de-
serve not even the waste corner which I allowed
you in my closet.

Away with you I Into the waste-basket !

i6o Mo7tday Tales,

A TURCO OF THE COMMUNE.

He was a little drummer of the tirailleurs indi-
genes} His name was Kadour, he came from the
tribe of Djendel, and he was one of that handful
of turcos who dropped into Paris, following the
fortunes of Vinoy's army. From Wissembourg
to Champigny he had served through the cam-
paign, crossing one battlefield after another, like a
storm-bird, with his iron snappers and his derbouka
(Arabian drum) ; so full of life he was, he seemed
to be in so many places at once, that no bullet knew
where to take him. But when winter came, the
little bronzed African, glowing under the fire of
grapeshot, could not endure those nights at the
outposts, and the hours of immobility in the snow.
One January morning he was picked up on the
bank of the Marne, writhing with cold, his feet
frozen. For a long time he remained in a hospital.
It was there I saw him for the first time.

Sad, dumbly patient as a sick dog, the turco
gazed about him with wide-open, gentle eyes.
When some one spoke to him he smiled and showed
his teeth. This was the only reply he could make,
for our language was unknown to him, and he
could scarcely even speak the Sabir, that Algerian
1 Native African regiment.

A Turco of the Commune. i6i

patois composed of Provencal, Italian, Arabian, —
made of that strange medley of words which time
has gathered like sea-shells along many a Latin
shore.

To divert himself, Kadour had only his derbotika.
From time to time, when his weariness was too
much for him, the drum was brought to his bed-
side and he was permitted to play upon it, but not
too loudly, for fear of disturbing the other patients.
Then his poor dark face, so hfeless and dull in the
yellow daylight and amid the dismal wintry sur-
roundings of the street, would grow animated
again, covered with grimaces, as he followed the
rhythm of each movement. Presently he would
beat the charge, and his gleaming white teeth
would show more and more, and he would smile
ferociously; sometimes his eyes moistened as he
beat a Mussulman morning-serenade, his nostrils
would quiver, and breathing the foul air of the
hospital, in the midst of phials and compresses, he
saw once again the groves of Blidah, laden with
oranges, the little Moriscas coming from the bath,
enveloped in white and perfumed with vervain.

Thus two months passed. During that time
much had occurred in Paris, but Kadour had not
the slightest suspicion of all this. He heard the
troops passing beneath his windows, weary and un-
armed, the guns paraded, rolled about from morn-
ing till night, the tocsin, the cannonade. Of all
this he understood nothing except that war had not
ended, and that as soon as his limbs were healed
he too would be able to fight again. At length,

II

1 62 Monday Tales,

one day he set out, his drum upon his back, in
quest of his company, and he had not long to
search. A group of Communists passing by led
him to the Place. After a lengthy examination, as
nothing could be gotten out of him except fre-
quent repetitions of " Bono besef, machache bono!*
the general of the day finally presented him with
ten francs and an omnibus-horse, and attached the
turco to his own staff.

In the various staffs during the Commune, there
was a little of everything, red blouses, Polish jack-
ets, Hungarian jerkins, sailors' coats, gold, velvet,
embroidery, and spangles. With his blue coat
embroidered in yellow, his turban, and his derbonka,
the turco added the finishing touch to the mas-
querade. Overjoyed to find himself in such fine
company, intoxicated with the sunshine, the can-
nonading, and the turmoil of the streets, this con-
fusion of arms and of uniforms, persuaded more-
over that it was the war against Prussia that was
being prosecuted with such inexpressible license
and vigor, this deserter, who did not even know
he had deserted, mingled naively in that great
Bacchanal of Paris, and was the celebrity of the
hour. Wherever he went, the Commune hailed
him and feasted him. It felt such pride in pos-
sessing him that it exhibited, placarded, bore him
about, as though he were a cockade. Twenty
times a day the Place sent him to La Guerre, La
Guerre despatched him to the Hotel de Ville. For
it had been so often observed that their sailors
were no sailors at all, their artillery make-believe !

A Titrco of the Commune, 163

This at least was the real thing, a genuine turco.
To be convinced of the fact, one need only look at
the lively phiz of the young ape, and the savage
strength of thac little body rushing from place to
place on his huge horse, pirouetting, capering
alpout as if performing a fantasia.

One thing, however, was lacking to complete the
happiness of Kadour. He longed to fight, to
smell powder. Unfortunately, under the Commune,
as before under the Empire, the staff saw little of
that. Except during the time when he was parad-
ing, or busy upon errands, the poor turco passed
his time on the Place Vendome, or in the court-
yards outside the war department, or in the midst
of disorderly camps full of barrels of brandy
always on tap, and tubs of bacon which had been
smashed open, eating and drinking bouts follow-
ing close upon the famine of the siege. Too true
a Mussulman to take part in these orgies, Kadour
held himself aloof, remained tranquil and sober,
performing his ablutions in a corner, making his
couscous with a handful of semolina, and after
drumming a little upon his derhouka, would roll
himself up in his burnous, and fall asleep upon a
stone step, by the light of some bivouac fire. ^

One morning in the m.onth of May, the turco
was awakened by a terrific fusillade. At the v/ar
department all was commotion, men were running,
fleeing. Mechanically he did as the others were
doing, jumped upon his horse and followed the
stafT. The streets were full of terrified buglers,
whole battalions were in utter confusion. Pave-

164 Monday Tales,

ments had been torn up to form barricades. Evi-
dently something extraordinary was going on.
As one approached the quay the fusillade was
more distinct, the tumult greater. On the bridge
of La Concorde, Kadour lost sight of the staf.'.
A little farther on, his horse was taken from hin:.
It was for an officer whose kepi boasted eight
stripes. He was in haste to witness what was hap-
pening at the Hotel de Ville. Furious at losing
his horse, the turco proceeded to run towards the
thick of the fray. Rushing on, he loaded his
chassepot as he went, muttering between his
clenched teeth, " Machache bono, Brissien ; " for
all this tumult meant to him that the Prussians
were entering Paris. Already the bullets had be-
gun to whistle about the Obelisk and in the leaf-
age of the Tuileries. At the barricade of the Rue
de Rivoli the avengers of Flourens called out,
" Hallo there ! turco, turco ! " There were not
more than a dozen of them, but Kadour was worth
an entire army.

Standing upon a barricade, gaudy and proud as
a flag itself, leaping, crying, he fought amid a
shower of grapeshot. The cloud of smoke rising
from the earth lifted for a moment between two
cannonades, and he could see red trousers massed
about in the Champs Elysees. Then all became
confused again. He thought he was mistaken,
and let the powder speak once more in choicest
accents.

Suddenly the barricade was silent. The last
of the artillery had fled, despatching its final volley.

A Turco of the Commune, 165

But the turco never budged. In his hiding-place,
ready to spring, he adjusted his bayonet firmly, and
waited for the pointed helmets. But what was this
he saw? The line advancing! He heard the
heavy tramp of the soldiers marching at quick pace,
and above that the voices of officers exclaiming :

" Surrender ! "

For a moment the turco was stupefied ; then he
advanced, his gun held aloft.

" Bono, bono, Franche ! "

Vaguely to his savage brain had come the idea
that this was the army of deliverance, Faidherbe,
or Chanzy, for which the Parisians had waited
so long. How delighted he was ! how he laughed,
showing all his white teeth ! In an instant the
barricade was crowded. Men surround him, push
him about.

" Let us see your gun."

It was still warm.

" Let us see your hands."

They were black with powder. The turco dis-
played them proudly, and still with that fine expan-
sive smile of his. Then they shoved him against a
wall, and — bang !

He died without once suspecting what it all
meant.

1 66 Monday Tales.

THE CONCERT OF COMPANY EIGHT. ^

All the battalions of the Marais, and of the
Faubourg Saint- Antoine were encamped that night
in the barracks, along the Avenue Daumesnil.
For three days the army of Ducrot had been fight-
ing upon the heights of Champigny, and the rest
of us had been prevailed upon to believe that we
formed the reserve.

Nothing could have been more dismal than this
encampment upon the boulevard ext^rieuVy sur-
rounded by factory-chimneys, closed stations, and
deserted lumber-yards, lighted only by a few wine-
sellers' shops. Nothing more glacial, more sordid,
could be pictured than these long rows of wooden
barracks, erected upon a ground dried and hard-
ened by the cold of December; the frames of
their windows were badly joined, the doors were
always open, and the smoky lamps dimmed with
the fog, like lanterns in the open air. It was im-
possible to read, to sleep, to remain seated. It
was necessary to invent street urchins' games,
merely to keep warm; men were seen beating
their feet together, and running around the bar-
racks. Such absurd inaction, so close to the field
of battle, was as ignominious as it was enervating,
especially on that night. Although the cannonade

The Concert of Company Eight. 167

had ceased, all felt that something terrible was
about to happen above, and from time to time,
when the electric search-lights of the forts flashed
upon that side of Paris in their circular movement,
silent troops could be seen massed along the edge
of the pavements, and others ascending the avenue
in sombre masses, apparently crouching close to
the ground, and looking like pygmies, beside the
high columns of the Place du Trone.

I was standing, almost frozen, hid in the dark-
ness which wrapped those great boulevards, when
some one said to me, —

*' Come and see Company Eight. It seems they
are having a concert ! "

I went. Each of our companies had its own
barrack. That of Company Eight was much bet-
ter lighted than the others, and crammed with
people. Candles fastened to the end of bayonets
were flaming, clouded with black smoke. They
shone in full upon these vulgar mechanics* faces,
brutalized by drunkenness, cold, fatigue, and that
wretched sleep taken while standing, — sleep which
makes pale, sallow faces. In a corner, her mouth
wide open, the cantiniere was dozing curled up
upon a bench, before her small table loaded with
empty bottles and dirty glasses.

Some one was singing. As their turns came,
Messieitrs les amateurs mounted a stage improvised
in the back of the room, and there they attitudi-
nized, declaimed ; draped in their blankets, they
recalled melodramatic memories. I listened again
to those robustious, ear-splitting voices, such as one

1 68 Monday Tales,

hears resounding from the extremity of some pas-
sage, or from those working-men's quarters, filled
with clamorous children, noisy workshops, and
bird-cages. Such a voice is charming to hear
when it mingles with the music of tools, with an
accompaniment of plane or hammer. But there
upon that stage the sound was as absurd as it was
painful.

First of all, we had the pensive working-man, a
mechanic with a long beard, droning the woes of
the proletary. ^' P auvro proUtair-o-o-o " issued from
deep down in his throat, in a song in which the
Holy International has located its angers.

Then another came on, half asleep ; he sang to
us the famous song of the Canaille, but to an air
so wearisome, slow, and doleful that one might
have mistaken it for a lullaby, — *' Oest la canaille ,
— eh bien ! j'en siiis ; " and while he was chant-
ing, we could hear the snoring of those who had
sought corners determined to sleep, and with a
grunt turned about trying to avoid the light.

Suddenly a white flash passed between the
boards, and caused the red flame of the candles to
pale. At the same time a heavy sound shook the
barrack, followed by other sounds, heavier and
farther away, which rumbled among the hills of
Champigny, and then grew fitful and faint. The
battle was beginning again. But Messieurs les
amateurs scoffed at the very idea of a battle.

The stage itself and those four candles had stirred
in all these people the indescribable instincts of the
low comedian. It was curious to see how each lay

The Concert of Company Eight, 169

in wait for the last couplet of a predecessor, ready
to snatch the ballad from his lips. They felt the
cold no longer. Those who were upon the stage,
those who descended it, and those who were await-
ing their turn, a ballad at their tongue's end, all
were perspiring, red in the face, their eyes kindled.
Vanity kept them warm.

There were local celebrities present, among them
an upholsterer-poet, who asked permission to sing
a little song of his own composition, entitled the
Egoist, with a refrain, Chaaiit pour soi} And as
he had an impediment in his speech, he could only
say, " egoift,'' and '^ facun pour foiy It was a satire
upon the big-bellied bourgeois, who would rather
sit by his own fireside than go to the outposts. I
can still seem to see the fine head of this fabulist,
who, with his kepi askew, his chin-piece strapped
about his chin, emphasized every word of his chan-
sonnette, hurling maliciously at us that refrain, —

" Facun pourfoi — facun pour foiT

During this time cannon were making music too,
mingling that profound bass with the roulades of
the mitrailleuses. They told of the wounded dy-
ing of cold in the snow, they spoke of the agony
upon the roadsides amid pools of frozen blood, they
told of blinding shells, of shadowy death, stealing
through the night on every hand. But the concert
of Company Eight continued.

And now obscene songs began. An old rigolo
with bloodshot eyes and red nose frisked about
upon the stage, followed by a mad stamping of
i Each for himself.

170 ^ Monday Tales,

feet, cries of " Again ! " and bravos. The broad
grin which greets obscenities permitted among men
spread over all these faces. Suddenly the cantiniere
awoke, and hemmed in by the crowd, devoured by
all those eyes, contorted her features into the sem-
blance of a smile, while the old man shouted in his
husky voice, " Le bon Dieu, saoM comme tin — ."

I could stand it no longer. I left. My turn to
be on duty was coming. So much the worse. I
needed room, and air. I walked straight ahead,
but slowly, towards the Seine. The river was dark,
the quay deserted. Paris, wrapped in gloom, de-
prived of gas, was slumbering, encircled with fires.
Everywhere the flash of the cannon, and from place
to place, on the heights, the ruddy light of incen-
diary fires. Quite near to me, I heard low hurried
voices, sounding quite distinctly through the cold
air. They panted for breath, they cheered each
other on.

'' Ho ! heave there — "

Suddenly the voices stopped, as if suspended
because of some arduous and mighty labor which
requires all one's strength. As I approached the
edge of the quay, I was able to distinguish in that
vague light, rising from the still darker waters, a
gunboat which had been stopped at the Bercy
bridge, and was trying to ascend the current.
The lanterns, which shook with every movement
of the water, the grating of the cables, which sailors
were hauling, indicated the falls, the recoils, all the
shocks of that struggle against the malevolence of
the river and the night. Valiant little boat ! how

The Concert of Company Eight. 171

impatient all these delays made her. She churned
the water furiously with her wheels, making it splash
and bubble where she stood. At last a supreme
effort pushed her forward. " Courage, boys ! " And
when she had passed, and was advancing directly
onward through the fog towards the battle which
had summoned her, there rose a mighty cry of
*' Vive la France ! " and echoed under the bridge.
Ah ! that concert of Company Eight, how far
away it seemed !

172 Monday Tales,

THE BATTLE OF PE RE-LAC HAISE.

The guard began to smile.

'' A battle here? — but there never was one. It
was merely an invention of the newspapers. Listen,
and I will tell you all that really happened. On
the evening of the twenty-second, which was a
Sunday, we saw thirty of the artillery of the Com-
mune approaching, with a battery of two-inch guns,
and mitrailleuse of the newest pattern. They sta-
tioned themselves on the highest ground of the
cemetery, and as I was on guard in that especial
section, I received them myself. Their mitrailleuse
was at this part of the walk, near my sentry-box,
their cannon a little lower, upon this terreplein.
On their arrival, they compelled me to open several
chapels. I thought they were going to smash
everything to pieces and pillage in general. But
arranging them in good order, and placing himself
in their midst, their chief delivered this little dis-
course for their benefit : * If one blackguard of
you all touches anything, I will blow off his jaw.
Break ranks.* He was an old white-haired fellow,
with medals received for his services in Italy and
the Crimea ; his manner said he would permit no
trifling. His men understood that he meant what
he said, and I will do them the justice to say that

The Battle of Pere-Lac/iatse, 173

they did not take a single thing from one of the
tombs, not even the crucifix of the Due de Morny,
which alone is worth two thousand francs.

" Nevertheless, they were a villanous rabble, these
artillerymen of the Commune. The gunners of
the occasion thought of nothing except how to
spend their three francs and a half of extra pay.
You should have seen the life they led in that
cemetery ! They piled in together to sleep in the
vaults. They occupied the Mofny tomb and the
Favronne, that beautiful tomb where the Emperor's
nurse is interred. They cooled their wine in the
Champeaux tomb, where there is a fountain. They
brought in women, and all night long they drank
and made merry. Ah ! I can assure you that our
dead must have heard curious things.

" All the same, in spite of their want of skill
those bandits did not a little harm to Paris. Their
position was admirable. From time to time they
would receive orders, —

" * Fire upon the Louvre ! ' ' Fire upon the
Palais-Royal ! '

'* Then their old leader would direct the guns, and
shells filled with petroleum descended upon the
city at random. What was going on elsewhere
below, none of us could tell. We heard the
fusillade coming nearer and nearer, but the Com-
munists were not in the least disturbed about that.
With the battery-fires of Chaumont, Montmartre,
and Pere-Lachaise, it did not seem possible to them
that the Versailles forces could advance. But that
which sobered them a little was the first shell

174 Monday Tales,

which a naval regiment sent our way on arriving
upon the hill at Montmartre.

" They had expected it so little ! I myself was in
their midst, leaning against the Morny monument,
and smoking my pipe. Seeing the bombs coming,
I had no more than time enough to throw myself
upon the ground. At first our gunners believed it
was a false aim, or that some one of their colleagues
was drunk, but I can tell you, at the end of five
minutes another flash from Montmartre, and another
plum of the same sort arrived, aimed straighter
than the first. That very moment these jolly
blades dropped their guns and their mitrailleuse,
and took to their heels without ceremony. The
cemetery was not large enough to hold them.
They cried as they ran, ' We are betrayed ! We
are betrayed ! '

'' The old man alone remained there, exposed to
all the fire, worked like the very devil in the midst
of his battery, and wept with rage "to see that his
gunners had all fled.

*' However, towards evening, when paytime
arrived, a few of them returned. Look, Monsieur,
upon my sentry-box ; the names of those who re-
turned to get their money that night are still here."
The old man called their names, inscribing them as
he did so.

''■ ' Sidainey present ; Choudeyras, present ; Billot ^
' Vollon — '

" As you see, there are not more than four or five,
but they had brought women with them. Ah ! I
shall never forget that evening they were paid.

The Battle of Pere-Lachazse. 175

Below, Paris was in flames, the Hdtel de Ville, the
Arsenal, the public granaries. In Pere-Lachaise
one could see as plainly as by daylight. The Com-
munists attempted to return to their guns, but
there were not enough of them ; and besides,
Montmartre terrified them. So they retreated into
a tomb, and began to drink and to sing with their
wenches. The old man had seated himself between
those two great stone figures that stand at the
portal of the Favronne tomb, and his face was
terrible to behold as he watched Paris burning.
He looked as though^^ he knew his last night had
come.

" After that moment I scarcely know just what
happened. I returned to my own quarters, — that
little shanty which you see yonder, hidden among
the branches. I was very tired, and I threw myself
upon the bed, still dressed, keeping my lamp
lighted as though it was a stormy night. Suddenly
rough knocking was heard at the door. My wife
went to open it, all in a tremble. We thought it
was the Communists, but they were marines, — a
commandant, ensigns, and a physician. They said
to me, —

" ' Get up ; make us some cofifee.'

" T got up ; I made their coffee. A murmur was
heard in the cemetery, an indistinct movement as
if all the dead had awakened for the last Judgment-
day. The officers drank very quickly, all standing;
then they took me out with them.

" The cemetery was filled with soldiers and sailors.
I was placed at the head of a squad, and we began

176 Monday Tales.

to search the cemetery, tomb after tomb. From
time to time, when the soldiers saw something
stirring in the foHage, they would fire a shot towards
the end of a walk, and it would graze a bust, or
pass through some grating. Here and there they
discovered some poor wretch hiding in the corner
of a chapel. They made short work of him. That
was what was in store for my artillery-men. I
found them all, men and women huddled about my
sentry-box, the old fellow with the medals standing
beside them. It was no pleasant sight in that cold
gray dawn. Brrr ! But what stirred me most was
to see a long line of the national guards, who at this
very moment were being led from the prison of La
Roquette, where they had passed the night. They
climbed the broad pathway slowly, like a funeral
procession. Not a word, not a complaint could be
heard. These unfortunates were utterly crushed,
exhausted. There were some who were asleep
while they marched, and even the thought that
they were about to die did not seem to awaken
them. They were forced to march on to the ex-
tremity of the cemetery, and the fusillade began.
One hundred forty-seven of them there were. You
can imagine whether it lasted very long. And
that is what is called the battle of Pere-Lachaise."

Here the worthy man, perceiving his sergeant,
left me quite abruptly, and I remained there alone,
looking at his sentry-box and those names written
upon it, by the light of Paris in flames, — the names
of those who had returned to receive their last
pay.

The Battle of Pere-Lackaise, 177

I pictured that night in May, pierced with shells,
red with blood and flames, that great, lonely ceme-
tery illuminated like some city on a day of festi-
val, the guns left in the middle of the paths
around the open vaults, — that orgy in the tombs,
while near-by, surrounded by innumerable domes,
columns, and stone images, which seemed alive in
the light of those leaping flames, was that bust
with the broad forehead, and the large eyes, — the
bust of Balzac regarding the scene.

n

178 Monday Tales,

THE LITTLE PATES.

That Sunday morning, the pastry-cook Sureau,
of the Rue Turenne called his apprentice and said
to him,—

*' Here are Monsieur Bonnicar's little pates.
Carry them to him, and return at once, for they
say the army from Versailles has entered Paris."

The boy, who understood nothing of politics,
put the pates, still warm, into his tart-dish, the tart-
dish in a white napkin, and balancing pates, dish,
and all upon his cap, set out on a run for lie Saint-
Louis, where Monsieur Bonnicar resided. The
morning was glorious, sunshine everywhere, —
that warm May sunshine that fills the fruit shops
with bunches of Hlacs and clusters of cherries.

In spite of the distant fusillade and the bugle
calls at street-corners, all that venerable quarter of
the Marais preserved its peaceful physiognomy.
There was a suggestion of Sabbath in the air;
voices of children were heard in the courtyards, tall
girls were playing shuttlecock in front of their
doors, and that little white outline trotting along
the deserted street, a delicious perfume of hot pat6
accompanying him, succeeded in imparting to this

The Little Pates, 179

morning of battle, a certain naive and Sunday aspect.
All the animation of the quarter seemed to be there
in the Rue de Rivoli. Cannons were dragged about,
men were working upon the barricades ; at every
step one came across groups of the national guards,
very much busied. But the pastry-cook's boy did
not lose his head. These youngsters are so accus-
tomed to making their way through a crowd, so
used to the hubbub of the street ! It is on feast-
days, when all is noise and bustle, on New Year's
Days and Shrove Sundays, that they are kept
busiest, running about ; revolutions are scarcely a
surprise to them.

It was really delightful to see that little white
cap insinuating its way through kepis and bayonets,
avoiding collisions, keeping that tart-dish nicely
balanced, sometimes hastening, sometimes com-
pelled to move slowly, when one could plainly
see it wished to rush on. What did it care about
the battle ? The chief thing was to reach the Bon-
nicars' just as twelve struck, and to receive as
quickly as possible the little poiirboire which was
waiting there upon a shelf in the anteroom.

Suddenly the crowd began to push and shove
terribly, and the pupils of the Republic passed by
at a run, singing. They were from twelve to fifteen
years of age, decorated with chassepots, red
girdles, and big boots ; no Mardi Gras masquer-
aders, running along a muddy boulevard, wearing
paper caps and carrying a grotesque pink shred of
a parasol, could have been prouder than they to
be disguised as soldiers. And this time the jost-

i8o Monday Tales,

ling was so great that the pastry-cook's boy found
it difficult to maintain his equilibrium ; but his tart-
dish and he had slid along the ice so many times,
had taken part in so many games of hop-scotch
upon the sidewalk, that the little pates had ceased
to feel any fear.

Unfortunately, all that excitement, those songs
and red girdles, and his admiring curiosity, sud-
denly inspired the pastry-cook's boy with a desire
to go farther in such fine company, and passing
beyond the H6tel de Ville and the bridges of lie
Saint-Louis without even perceiving them, he him-
self borne onward, following that dust-stained, wind-
swept, mad procession — how far he was carried, I
do not know.

II.

For at least twenty-five years it had been the
custom of the Bonnicars to partake of those little
p^tes every Sunday. Exactly on the stroke of
twelve, when the entire family — large and small
— were assembled in the dining-room, a lively,
cheery ring of the bell was heard, and every one
would say, —

" Ah ! it is the pastry-cook ! "

Then there would be great bustling, the move-
ment of chairs would be heard, the rustling of
Sunday frocks; the children distributed them-
selves joyously about the table, already set, and all
these happy bourgeois would seat themselves

The Little Pates, i8i

around those little pdt6s symmetrically piled upon
a silver warming-dish.

But upon that Sunday the bell remained mute.
Scandalized, Monsieur Bonnicar looked at his
clock, a venerable affair surmounted by a stuffed
heron, a clock which never in its lifetime had been
either a moment fast or a moment slow. The
children stared through the windows, watching the
corner of the street where the pastry-man's appren-
tice usually appeared first. Conversation lan-
guished, and that hunger which noon with its
twelve strokes of the clock usually awakes over-
came every one, making the dining-room seem
very large, very dreary, in spite of the antique
silver gleaming upon the damask cloth, and the
napkins twisted in the form of tiny horns, white
and stiff.

Several times already the old servant had come
to whisper in her master's ear that the roast was
burnt, the little green peas overcooked ; but Mon-
sieur Bonnicar was determined not to sit down at
table without the little pat^s, and furiously angry
with Sureau, he determined to go and learn for
himself what this unheard-of delay might mean.
As he went out, brandishing his cane and very
angry, his neighbors gave him warning, —

" Look out. Monsieur Bonnicar ! People say
the Versaillais have entered Paris."

But he would hear nothing, not even the sounds of
the fusillade, which were coming from Neuilly across
the water, not even the alarm-gun of the Hotel de
Ville, which shook every window of the quarter.

1 82 Monday Tales,

" Oh ! that Sureau ! that Sureau ! "

And in the excitement and speed of his walk he
talked to himself, imagining that he was already in
the middle of the shop, hammering the floor with
his cane, making the glass of the showcase and the
plates of plum-cake tremble. The barricade of
Pont Louis-Philippe interrupted his anger for a
moment. Some Communists with ferocious mien
were there, sprawling in the sunlight upon the
pavement, whose stones had been removed.

"Where are you going, citizen? "

The citizen explained, but the story of the little
pates appeared to arouse suspicion, especially as
M. Bonnicar wore his fine Sunday-coat, his gold
spectacles, and had every appearance of being an
old reactionnaire. '

"■ He is a spy," said th^federh, " he must be sent
to Rigault."

Whereupon, very willingly, four men who were
not at all sorry to leave the barricade drove the
exasperated and wretched man before them with
the butt-ends of their guns. I do not know how
they managed it, but half an hour later they
were all captured by the Line, and were sent to
join a long file of prisoners who were about to
be marched to Versailles. M. Bonnicar protested
more and more, raised his cane, and related his
tale for the hundredth time. Unfortunately, that
story concerning the little pat^s appeared so ab-
surd, so incredible, in the midst of the great
upheaval of the city, that the officers merely
smiled at it.

The Little Pates, 183

" That *s a fine story, old fellow. You shall ex-
plain all about it at Versailles."

And through the Champs Elys^es, white with
the smoke of repeated firings, the column moved
on between two lines of chasseurs.

III.

The prisoners marched five abreast, their ranks
closed and compact. To prevent the procession
from scattering, they were compelled to walk arm
in arm, and as the long column passed on, that
human herd trampling the dust of the road, the
sound resembled that of a heavy rain-storm.

The unhappy Bonnicar believed he must be
dreaming. Panting, perspiring, dizzy with fear and
fatigue, he dragged himself on at the end of the
column, between two old hags who reeked of petro-
leum and brandy, and those about him who heard
those words, ** pastry-cook," " little pat^s," repeated
again and again, amid imprecations, thought he had
gone mad.

And indeed the poor man had lost his head. As
they ascended the road, descended it again, when
the ranks of the procession would open a little, did
he not fancy he saw yonder, in the dust which filled
the open space, the white jacket and the cap of
that boy of Bureau's? And ten times at least M.
Bonnicar seemed to see him upon the road. That
tiny white flash passed before his eyes, as if to

184 Monday Tales,

mock him, then it would disappear again in the
midst of a surging multitude of figures, some clad
in uniforms, some in blouses, and others in tatters.
At last, just at sunset, they arrived at Versailles,
and when the crowd saw that old, spectacled bour-
geois, haggard, untidy, and covered with dust, with
one accord they discovered that he was a scoun-
drel of the deepest dye. They said, " It is F61ix
Pyat — no ! it is Delescluze."

The chasseurs of the escort had some difficulty
in conducting him safe and sound to the courtyard
of the Orangerie. There for the first time that
wretched procession was allowed to scatter, to
stretch their limbs on the ground, and to regain
their breath. Some were half asleep, others were
swearing, coughing, weeping. But Bonnicar nei-
ther wept nor slept. Seated upon a stone stairway,
his head buried in his hands, three fourths of him
dead from hunger, shame, and fatigue, his mind
reverted to all the incidents of that unhappy day,
his departure from home, his companions at table
anxiously waiting, the table standing until evening,
expecting him still, and then the humiliation, the
injuries, those gun-butts directed at him, and all
this merely on account of an unpunctual pastry-
cook !

" Monsieur Bonnicar ! here are your little pat6s ! "
a voice near-by suddenly exclaimed; and raising
his head, the worthy man was much surprised
when he saw that pastry-cook's boy of Bureau's —
who, it seems, had been captured along with the
pupils of the Republic — uncover and present to

The Little Pates, 185

him the tart-dish concealed behind his white
apron ! And thus it happened that, in spite of
the ^meute and imprisonment, upon this Sabbath
as on every other, Monsieur Bonnicar ate his httle
pat^s.

1 86 Monday Tales,

ABOARD: A MONOLOGUE.

Two hours ago every light was extinguished,
every porthole closed. On the lower gun-deck,
which serves us for sleeping-room, all is dark, op-
pressive, and sdfling. I hear my comrades turning
about in their hammocks, dreaming aloud, and
groaning in their sleep. These days spent in utter
idleness, where only the brain works until it is
weary, lead to restless nights of fevered slumber,
from which one starts again and again. And even
that slumber will not come to me. I cannot sleep ;
my thoughts will not let me.

On the deck above the rain is falling. The
wind is high. From time to time, when the watch
changes, a bell at the bow of the ship rings through
the fog. Every time I hear it I am reminded of
Paris, and the six o'clock bell ringing in the fac-
tories all about us. There are plenty of factories
in our neighborhood. I see our Httle lodging, the
children returning from school, the mother seated
in the back of the workshop, just finishing some-
thing which she holds up to the window, availing
herself of the last bit of the waning daylight, until
she comes to the end of her thread. Alas ! what is
to become now of everything there?

Perhaps it would have been better for me to take
them with me, since I had permission. But then,

Aboard: A Monologue. 187

what could one expect? They would be so far
away from home. I feared the effect of the
voyage and change of climate upon the children.
And then we would have had to sell our stock of
trimmings, our little property brought together
with such effort, collected piece by piece for ten
years. And my boys could not have gone to school
any longer. And their mother would have been
compelled to live among a parcel of trulls ! No,
indeed ! I would rather endure it all alone. And
yet when I climb to the deck above, and see all
those families seated there, as if they were quite at
home, the mothers sewing, the children clinging to
their skirts, I could almost cry every time.

The wind increases, the sea swells. The frigate
sails on, pitching sidewise ; the masts creak, the
sails crack. We must be going very quickly. So
much the better. I am almost anxious now to
reach that lie des Pins, the mere thought of which
terrified me so when I was sentenced. It will be
the end of my journey, it will be. a resting-place.
And I am so weary. There are moments when all
that I have seen during the past twenty months
rises before my eyes again, and makes my head
swim. The Prussian siege, the ramparts, the drill,
the clubs, the civil interments, immortelles in one's
button-hole, the addresses at the foot of the Col-
umn, the feasts of the Commune at the Hotel de
Ville, the reviews of Cluseret, those sorties, the
battle, the station at Clamart, and all those low
walls where we knelt to fire upon the gendarmes ;
and then Satory, the prison-hulks, the police, the

1 88 Monday Tales,

transportations from one ship to another, the goings
and comings which made one ten times a prisoner
in exchanging prisons ; and lastly the chamber of
the Council of War, with all those officers in
full dress, seated at the rear, in the shape of a
horseshoe, and then those prisoners' barges, the
embarkation, the farewell, — all these are jumbled,
confused in that bewildered state which comes after
tossing about a few days at sea.

Oh!

Hardship, dust, and what else besides I do not
know, have covered my face, like a mask. It
seems to me that I have not washed for ten years.

Ah, yes ! it will seem good indeed to set foot
somewhere, to halt at last. They say that when I
get there I shall have a bit of ground, tools, a
little house. A little house ! yes, we dreamed of
such a one, my wife and I, on the hill at Saint
Mand6, a little, low house, with a garden spread
in front hke an open drawer, full of vegetables
and flowers. There on Sundays, from morning
till night, we would have taken our airing, sunned
ourselves for the whole week to come, and when
the children were grown, and each had learned his
trade, there we would have retired to enjoy a
peaceful old age. Ah, poor fool, see where you
are now ! on the retired list to be sure, and you
will have your house in the country !

Oh, misery ! when I think that politics was the
cause of it all ! And I always mistrusted their in-
fernal politics, was always afraid of it. At first I
was not rich, and with my stock to pay for I had

Aboard: A Monologue, 189

not much time for reading the papers, or listening
to all the fine speakers at different meetings. But
the cursed siege came, and the national guard, —
nothing to do but to brawl and to drink. Of course
I must go to their clubs with the others, and all
their fine words ended by turning my head, —
" The working-man's rights ! The welfare of the
People ! "

When the Commune came, I believed that the
Golden Age for the poor had arrived. Not long
after, I was made a captain, and as all the staff
must have new clothes, all that lace, those frogs
and aiguillettes gave plenty of work to our es-
tablishment. Later, when I saw how things were
going, I wanted to get out of it all, but I was afraid
every one would think me a coward.

What are they doing now overhead ? I hear a
rumbling sound — a voice through the speaking-
tubes. Jack-boots are tramping the slippery deck.
These sailors, what hard lives they lead ! There
is the quartermaster's whistle, rousing them from
their sleep. They climb upon the deck, not yet
awake, and moist with sweat. They must hurry
to and fro, in the dark, in the cold. The boards
are slippery, the riggings are frozen, and cause the
hands that cling to them to smart. And while
they hang there upon the yard-arms, between the
sky and the sea, hauling those great stiffened sails,
a sudden squall seizes them, sweeps them off, and
scatters them upon the high sea, as though they
were merely a flock of sea-gulls. Ah ! a sailor's
life is somewhat rougher than that of a Paris work'

190 Monday Tales,

ing-man, and not as well paid. And yet these
fellows do not complain, do not rebel at it. They
look perfectly content, their clear eyes are resolute
enough ; and how they respect those who command
them ! It is plain to see that they have not fre-
quented our clubs !

This is a storm indeed ! The frigate tosses
horribly, — leaping and creaking in all her timbers.
Floods of water pour upon the deck, with a roar
like thunder; after that, for five minutes at least,
tiny gutters overflow on every side. There is a
sudden stir about me. Some are sea-sick, others
are afraid.

This enforced immobility in the hour of danger
is the worst form of imprisonment. And to think
that while we are huddled here like so many cattle,
groping and tossed about in this sinister tumult
which surrounds us, so many of those charming
sons of the Commune with gilt tassels and red
plastrons — all those play soldiers, cowards who
drove us to the front — are placidly enjoying them-
selves in their caf6s, in theatres at London, Geneva,
and so near France. When I think of that it
makes me furious.

Upon the gun-deck, all are awake now. They
call from hammock to hammock, and as all of
them are Parisians, they begin to joke and laugh,
and chaff each other. I pretend I am still asleep
so that they may let me alone. How horrible,
what torture it is never to have a moment to one's
self, to live in such a hive as this, to be obliged
to grow angry when these others are, to talk as

Aboard: A Monologue, 191

they talk, make believe one hates what he does
not, — all this that he need not be taken for a spy.
And that endless, endless jesting of theirs ! Good
Lord ! what a sea ! Surely the gale is hollowing
out great black chasms, into which the frigate
plunges as it is whirled onward. Yes, surely, it
was best that I did not take them with me. It is
good to think in this hour that they are at home,
safely sheltered in our little chamber. Deep in the
gloom of the gun-deck, I fancy I catch the gleam
from a lamp ; it seems to fall upon the foreheads
of the children, fast asleep ; and their mother, lean-
ing over them, muses, and works the while.

192 Monday Tales.

THE FAIRIES OF FRANCE.
A FANTASTIC TALE.

"The prisoner may rise," said the presiding
judge.

There was a sudden stir upon that hideous bench,
where were seated the women accused of trying to
set fire to the city with petroleum. A misshapen,
shivering creature rose and leaned against the bar.
She was a bundle of rags and tatters, patches,
strings, old flowers and feathers, and above them
all a poor faded face, brown and shrivelled and
wrinkled ; two tiny black eyes peered out from the
wrinkles, twisting round and round like some lizard
in the crevice of an old wall.

'' What is your name? " she was asked.

'' Melusine — "

''What did you say?"

She repeated very gravely, '' Melusine."

Under the heavy moustache of a colonel of dra-
goons quivered a smile which the president con-
cealed, and he continued without moving a muscle :

"Your age?"

" I have forgotten."

"Your calling?"

*' I am a fairy I "

The Fairies of France. 193

For one sudden moment the court, the counsel,
even the government commissary himself, all burst
out laughing; but that did not disturb her, and her
clear, shrill, tremulous voice rose through the hall,
and lingered like a voice heard in a dream. She
continued, —

** Ah ! the Fairies of France, where are they
now? They are dead, all of them, my good sirs.
I am the last. After me, none will remain. And
in truth it is a great pity, for France was more
beautiful when she had still her fairies. We were
the poesy of the land, its faith, its candor, and its
youth. All our favorite haunts, the hidden recesses
of parks, overgrown with brambles, the stones
about each fountain, the turrets of ancient castles,
the mists shrouding each pool, and the great fens,
all received from our presence a nameless magic
gift which ennobled them. Through the luminous
mist of legend and fantasy might be caught
glimpses of us everywhere, trailing our skirts in a
ray of the moon, flitting across the meadows,
touching the tip of each grass-blade. The country-
folk loved us, reverenced us. And fancy bred of
innocence adored us, and even feared us a little,
when she caught sight of our wands, our distaffs,
our foreheads crowned with pearls. And so our
springs remained unsullied. Even the plough
would pause at the haunts we guarded, and as we,
the oldest people in the world, made all respect old
age from one end of France to the other, lofty
forests were allowed to flourish, and stones crumbled
into dust undisturbed.

13

1 94 Monday Tales,

'* But the age has progressed. The days of rail-
roads have come. Men hollowed out tunnels, filled
up our ponds, and hewed down so many trees that
we no longer knew where we might rest. And by
degrees the country-folk themselves ceased to be-
lieve in us. One evening, when we knocked at his
shutters, Robin said, " It is only the wind," and fell
asleep again. Women came to dabble their washing
in our pools. From that day all was ended for us.
As we lived only in the popular faith, losing that
we lost all. The virtue of our wands has vanished.
Puissant queens we once were ; now we appear to be
old, old women merely, wrinkled, malicious, as are all
forgotten fairies. Moreover, we must win our bread,
and with hands that never yet learned to do aught.
For a time we were to be seen in the forests, drag-
ging loads of dead wood, or gleaning by the roadside.
But the foresters were hard with us, the country-
folk threw stones at us. Then, like the poor, when
they can no longer earn their living in the country,
we departed to seek work in the great cities.

" Some went into the mills, others sold apples at
the bridges during the winter, stood at the church-
doors selling beads. We pushed carts of oranges
along, we offered to passers-by at a sou apiece bou-
quets that nobody wanted. The children mocked
at us because of our hanging chins, the police made
us move on, and omnibuses knocked us down.
Then came sickness, privations, the hospital-sheet
over us. That is how France has left her fairies to
die. She has been punished for that.

" Yes, yes, smile, my good people. But, all the

The Fairies of France, 195

same, we have seen what a country without fairies
may become. We have seen our well-fed, sneering
peasants open their chests for the Prussians, and
direct them along our roads. You see, Robin no
longer believes in sorcery, but he has also lost his
faith in his country. Ah ! if we had been there,
we fairies, of all those Germans who entered France,
not one should have returned alive. Our draks^
our will-o'-the-wisps would have led them into the
quagmires. Into every pure spring named for us
we would have poured an enchanted potion that
would have made them go mad. And at our meet-
ings by moonlight, with a single magic word we
would have confused the roads and rivers for them,
entangled so thick with brambles and briars those
hiding-places in the woods where they were always
squatting that even the little cat-eyes of Monsieur
de Moltke could not have told him where he was.
Had we been there, the peasants too would have
marched to fight. From the gorgeous flowers
about our pools, we would have extracted balms to
heal many a wound ; gossamer-threads we would
have used for lint, and on the battle-field the sol-
dier would have beheld the fairy of his own canton
hovering above his half-closed eyelids, to show him
some glade, some hidden byway that might remind
him of his native land. So we should have waged
a national war, a holy war. But alas ! in a country
whose faith is dead, a land that no longer believes
in fairies, such a war is impossible."

Here the thin, shrill voice paused for a moment
and the judge interposed a word, —

1 96 Mo7tday Tales,

" All this does not tell us what you were doing
with the petroleum that was found upon you when
the soldiers arrested you."

*' I was setting fire to Paris, my good sir,"
answered the old " fairy," calmly enough. ** I was
setting fire to Paris — because I hate it, because
its laugh spares nothing, because it is Paris that
slew us, Paris that has sent its savants to ana-
lyze our beautiful, miraculous springs, and to say
exactly how much iron and sulphur they contain,
Paris that has mocked at us from its theatres. Of
our enchantments it has made mere stage tricks,
our miracles it has perverted into vulgar jests. So
many vile beings have masqueraded in our rose-
tinted robes, sat in our winged chariots, with Ben-
gal fires for moonlight, that no one can think of us
now without a smile. Once little children knew
us by name, loved us, feared us a little, but instead
of the beautiful gilded books full of pictures,
wherein they learned to know our history, Paris
to-day places in their hands Science adapted to
children, big, musty volumes which make their
heads tired and fill their baby-eyes with a dull
dust that effaces every image of our enchanted
palaces and magic mirrors. Oh, yes ! I should
have been overjoyed to see it in flames — your
Paris. It was I that filled the cans of the petroleum-
women, I myself that led them to the best places,
saying, 'Come, my children, burn everything, —
burn! burn!'"

" Decidedly this old woman is mad," said the
judge. " Lead her away."

PART II.

CAPRICES AND SOUVENIRS.

CAPRICES AND SOUVENIRS.

A BOOK-KEEPER.

" Br-R-R ! how foggy it is ! " said the good man,
as he stepped into the street. He pulled up his
collar quickly, drew his muffler over his chin, and
with bent head, and hands buried in his back-
pockets, he set out for his office, whistling. as he
went.

And foggy indeed it was. In the streets this
fog is not so noticeable ; in the heart of a great
city it vanishes as quickly as the snow does.
Roofs intercept it, walls absorb it, some of it finds a
way into the houses every time the door is opened ;
it clings to the steps, making them slippery and
the railings humid. The rolling of carriages, the
coming and going of passers-by — those poor way-
farers of early morning, always in haste — cut the
fog, scatter it, and carry some of it onward. It
clings to the shabby, scant clothing of petty
clerks on their way to work ; it clings to the water-
proofs of shop-girls, to their flimsy little veils, to
the big oil-cloth boxes in which they carry their
work. But on the still deserted quays, upon the
bridges, the banks, the river, rests a heavy mist,
opaque, immovable; through it the sun is rising

200 Monday Tales,

yonder, behind Notre-Dame, its light dimmed as
that of a watch-lamp seen through a globe of
ground glass.

In spite of the wind and the fog, the man of
whom we have already spoken passes along the
quays, never for a moment leaving them ; he could
have taken another road, but the river appeared to
have some mysterious attraction for him. It afforded
him a species of delight to walk along the parapets,
graze those stone railings worn by the elbows of
many a lounger. At that hour, in such weather,
loungers were few. But here and there a woman
carrying a bundle of linen rests against the para-
pet, or some poor devil, leaning upon his elbows,
hangs over the water with an air of weariness.
And the man as he passes on looks about, watch-
ing them curiously, and then casts a glance towards
the water as if some hidden chain of thought linked
these people with the river itself.

And the river was not a cheerful sight that morn-
ing. The fog rising between its waves seemed to
make it heavier. The dark roofs rising above its
banks, the reflection of all those irregular chimney-
tops, leaning and cutting each other on the river's
surface, made one think of some dismal factory
located at the bottom of the Seine, and sending all
its smoke aloft to Paris in fog. But our worthy
man seems to find nothing sad in the sight. The
moisture penetrates every portion of his body, he
has not a dry thread of clothing, but he continues
on his way whistling, a happy smile upon his lips.
Long ago he became accustomed to the Seine

A Book-keeper, 201

fogs. And then, he knows that when he reaches
his destination he will find his pleasant fur-lined
foot-warmer, a roaring stove awaiting him, and the
warm little plate in which he makes his breakfast
every morning. These are the pleasures of an
employe, such are the only joys of these im-
prisoned and stunted beings whose whole lives are
passed in one little corner.

" I must not forget to buy some apples," he says
to himself again and again, and whistling he hurries
on. You never saw any man go to his labor more
gayly.

The quays, and still the quays ; then comes a
bridge, and now he has passed to the rear of Notre-
Dame. At this point of the Island the fog is
thicker than ever. It rises on three sides at once,
partly obscures the high towers, gathers at the
corner of the bridge, as if there were something
there it would conceal. The man pauses. This is
the place.

Not too plainly may be distinguished sinister
and shadowy figures, squatting upon the sidewalk,
who seem to await something. And as at the
railings of hospitals and squares, here also may
be seen flat baskets outspread with their rows of
cakes, oranges, and apples. Oh ! those beautiful
apples, — so fresh, so rosy, with the mist upon
them. He fills his pockets with them, smiling
at the vendor, who sits shivering, her feet upon
her foot-stove. Then he opens a door shrouded
in fog, and crosses a little yard where a cart is
standing harnessed.

202 Monday Tales.

*' Anything for us ? " he asks as he passes. The
wagoner replies, —

** Yes, sir, and something pretty this time."

He enters his office quickly. How comfortable
and warm it is within ! In a corner the stove
roars ; his foot-warmer is in its place ; his little
arm-chair awaits him in the brightest part of the
room, by the window ; the fog curtains its panes,
making a subdued, even light, and big books with
green backs, stand in a methodical row upon their
rack. A genuine notary's cabinet.

The man breathes freely. He is at home.

Before setting to work he opens a great closet,
brings out his lustrine sleeves which he puts on
carefully, draws forth a little, red earthen-ware
plate and some lumps of sugar, which came from
some cafe, and begins to peel his apples, gazing
about him with a satisfied air. And surely it would
have been impossible anywhere to find a cheer-
fuller, brighter office, or one more orderly in every
arrangement. But there was one singular thing,
and that was the sound of water which one could
not help hearing on every side — water everywhere,
enveloping you as though you were in the cabin
of a ship. Below lay the Seine, roaring, dashing
against the arches of the bridge, breaking in bil-
lows of foam at that point of the lie, always en-
cumbered with planks and piles and wreckage.
And even within and around the office there was
the drip ! drip ! of water thrown in pitcherfuls, the
plash of water washing heavily upon something
within. Why, I know not, but the very sound of

A Book-keeper, 203

that water made one shiver just to hear it. One
felt that it fell upon a hard floor, upon great slabs,
upon marble tables which made it still colder than
before.

What, then, do they wash again and again in this
strange house? What ineffaceable stain is here?

At moments, when the splashing ceases below,
drops are heard falling one by one as after a thaw
or a heavy rain. One might think that the fog
gathered upon roofs and walls were melting from
the heat of the stove, and trickling ceaselessly.

But the man takes no notice of it. He is com-
pletely absorbed in his apples, which begin to sing
in the red earthen-ware plate, exhaling a delicate
perfume of caramel ; and that delightful song pre-
vents his hearing the drip of the water, the sinister
drip of the water.

"Whenever you choose, recorder," speaks a
husky voice from a side-room. He glances at his
apples, and leaves the room regretfully. Where is
he going? Through the door which opens for a
minute, comes a chilly and unwholesome breath,
smelling of reeds and marshes, and there is seen
what seems to be a glimpse of clothes drying upon
a line, faded blouses, smocks, a calico robe hang-
ing at full length by the sleeves, and dripping,
dripping.

That part disposed of, he returns to his office,
and places upon his table a few small articles soaked
with water ; and, chilled, he turns towards the stove
to warm his hands, which are red with cold.

" Any one must be crazy to choose such weather

204 Monday Tales,

as this," he says with a shiver ; " what ails them all,
I wonder?"

And as he is warm again, and his sugar has
begun to form little crystal drops around his plate,
he sits down to eat his breakfast upon a corner of
his desk. As he eats, he opens one of his registers,
and turns its leaves complacently. The big book
is so well kept ! — ruled lines, entries in blue ink,
minute reflections of gold powder, blotters at every
page, care and order apparent everywhere. It
seems that his business is thriving, for the worthy
man's face wears a satisfied air, like that of an ac-
countant after an annual stock-taking that has
turned out well. And while he turns over the
pages of his book with delight, the doors of the
side-chamber open, the sound of many footsteps is
heard upon the flagstones, and voices saying in a
half-whisper, as if in church, —

" Oh ! how young she is ! What a pity ! "

And they elbow and push forward, whispering
still.

What does it matter to him that she is young?
Tranquilly finishing his apples, he sets before him
the articles he brought in a little while ago. A
thimble, full of sand, a pocketbook with a single
sou in it, a little pair of rusty scissors, so rusty that
they will never be used again, oh ! never again ;
the little book which registers her as working-girl
— its leaves glued together ; a tattered letter,
almost effaced, of which may be deciphered a few
words : " The child ... no money ... a month's
nursing ..."

A Book-keeper, 205

The book-keeper shrugs his shoulders with an
air that seems to say, —

" We have heard that before." Then he takes
his pen, brushes away carefully the crumbs of
bread which have fallen upon his ledger, makes a
movement preparatory to placing his fingers in
good position, and in his best hand writes the
name he has just deciphered upon the mouldy
book.

Filicie Rameau^ burnisher : age, seventeen years.

2o6 Monday Tales.

"WITH THE THREE HUNDRED THOU-
SAND FRANCS WHICH GIRARDIN
PROMISED ME!"

After a two hours' walk in Paris, when you
had left home with light tread, and gay-hearted,
have you never returned out of sorts, depressed by
a sadness for which you could ascribe no cause, an
incomprehensible weariness? You ask yourself
what ails you, but seek in vain for an answer to the
question. Your walk had led you through pleas-
ant paths; it was dry underfoot, and the sun
shone brightly, and yet your heart is touched with
a pain and sorrow that linger like the memory of
some past grief.

For in this mighty Paris, with its multitude of
people who feel themselves free and unobserved,
it is impossible to take a step without jostling
against some intrusive misery that bespatters the
passer-by, leaving its ineffaceable mark. I am
speaking not merely of those misfortunes with
which we are familiar, in which we are interested,
of those disappointments of some friend, which
seem in some slight degree our disappointments
also, which oppress our hearts with a pang almost
of remorse when we encounter them suddenly;
neither do I speak of the troubles of those for

Three Hundred Thousand Francs, 207

whom we feel mere indifference, to whom we listen
with one ear only, scarcely suspecting that we are
distressed at all ; I speak of those sorrows which
are quite alien to our lives, of which we catch only a
passing, momentary glimpse while rambling about
through the crowded streets.

Fragments of dialogues are heard, interrupted
by the noise of vehicles ; some of these wayfarers
are preoccupied, deaf, and dumb ; they soliloquize
loudly, with wild gestures ; their eyes glitter fever-
ishly, and their shoulders droop from weariness.
Others there are whose pale faces are swollen with
weeping, black-veiled mourners whose recent tears
are scarcely dried. And then those trivial details
which seem to elude notice ! That figure whose
well-worn coat, shiny from frequent brushings,
shuns the bright daylight ; another seated beneath
a porch turning a barrel-organ that has lost its
notes ; a hunchback who wears about her neck a
velvet ribbon, stiffly tied between her misshapen
shoulders. You sight these unfortunates, strangers
to you, merely for a moment, and forget them as
you pass on, but they have brushed against you,
you have felt some passing contact with their
wretchedness, your very garments are impregnated
with the weariness that follows in their footsteps,
and at the day's end, you feel a restlessness, a sense
of depression ; for at some street-corner, at the
threshold of some home, unconsciously you have
touched the invisible thread that binds so closely
the existence of all these wretched ones that the
least shock to one is felt by all.

2o8 Monday Tales,

I was thinking of this the other morning, for it
is especially during the morning that the misery of
Paris may be seen at its worst. I saw, walking in
front of me, a poor lean devil in a coat much too
small for him, which seemed to make his long legs
still longer, and to exaggerate tremendously all his
gestures. He was walking very fast, bent almost
double, swaying like a tree tossed by the wind.
From time to time he would put his hand in one of
his back pockets and break ofif a bit of a small
roll concealed there, devouring it furtively, as if
ashamed to eat in the street.

When I see masons seated upon the sidewalks,
nibbling the heart of a fine fresh loaf, it gives me
an appetite. I envy too, each humble clerk rush-
ing back from the bake-shop to his work, pen
behind his ear, and his mouth full, quite exhila-
rated by this meal in the open air. But this man
wore the shamefaced air of one who knows what
real hunger means, and it was pitiful to see this
unfortunate afraid to eat more than the tiniest
morsels of the bread he was crumbling within his
pocket. I followed him for a moment, but sud-
denly, brusquely, as frequently happens with these
dazed beings, the trend of his thought was
changed, and turning around, he found himself
face to face with me.

" Holloa, is it you ? " I chanced to recognize
him as an acquaintance, one of those fomenters of
schemes that spring up in innumerable numbers
from the very pavement of Paris, an inventor, a
founder of impossible journals, which for a space

Three Htmdred Thousand Francs, 209

make no end of talk in print, and are advertised on
every side. Three months ago he had disappeared
in a formidable plunge. After a few days' bubbling
of the waters where he fell, the surface of the tide
was as smooth as ever, the waters closed again, and
no one thought further about him. He was dis-
turbed at seeing me, and in order to cut short all
questioning, and doubtless also to divert attention
from his sordid appearance, his half-pennyworth
of bread, he began to talk very rapidly, in a tone
of assumed gayety. His affairs were progressing
finely, finely ! A little at a standstill just at pres-
ent, but this would not be for long. At this very
moment he was considering a magnificent under-
taking, nothing less than a great industrial journal,
illustrated ! Much money in it, and a splendid
contract, superb advertising ! His face grew more
and more animated as he talked. His figure
straightened itself By degrees, he began to as-
sume a protecting tone, as though he fancied him-
self already seated at his editor's-desk. He even
asked me to furnish some articles, adding in a tri-
umphant voice, —

" And you know, it 's an assured thing ; I shall
begin with the three hundred thousand francs that
Girardin has promised me ! "

Girardin !

That is the name forever upon the tongue of all
these visionaries. When I hear it pronounced, I
seem to see new quarters, huge buildings never
completed, journals just fresh from print, with lists
of subscribers and directors. How often I have

14

2IO Monday Tales.

heard it said of some senseless project, *' We must
speak about that to Girardin ! "

And in this poor devil's brain also had come the
idea that he must mention his scheme to Girardin !
All night long he had been preparing his plan,
figuring upon it. Then he had started out, and as
he went on, to his excited fancy it had all looked
so fine that at the moment of our encounter it
seemed absolutely impossible to him that Girardin
could think of refusing that three hundred thous-
and francs. And in stating that they had been
promised to him the poor wretch told no false-
hood, for his words were merely the continuation
of his dream.

While he was talking, we were jostled and pushed
against a wall. We stood upon the sidewalk of
one of those bustling streets leading to the Bourse
and the Bank; it was filled with people rushing
on distractedly and absorbed in their own affairs,
anxious shop-keepers in haste to pay their notes,
petty speculators, with coarse faces, hurling quota-
tions in each other's ears as they passed by. And
listening to all these fine projects in the midst of
that crowd, in that quarter where speculation runs
riot, where all these players of the game of chance
impart their feverish haste to every one, I shud-
dered as one might to hear the tale of some ship-
wreck recited in mid-ocean. For I saw all that
this man was telling me actually written upon the
faces of those about us ; all his catastrophes, all his
radiant hopes could be read in their wild, dazed
eyes. He left me as suddenly as he had accosted

Three HM7idred Thousand Francs, 2 1 1

me, and plunged headlong into that whirl of folly
and illusions and lying hopes, all that which men
of this sort refer to in a serious tone as " affairs."

At the end of five minutes I had forgotten him,
but at night after I had returned home, when I had
dispelled the memory of all the sad sights of the
day in shaking the dust of the streets off my feet,
I seemed to see again that wan, worried face of the
man with his morsel of bread, seemed to see the
gesture that emphasized those pompous words,
** With the three hundred thousand francs which
Girardia has promised me ! "

212 Mojiday Tales.

ARTHUR.

Some years ago I occupied a tiny box of a house
in the Champs Elysees, in the Passage des Douze-
Maisons. Picture to yourself an out-of-the-way
corner of that faubourg, nestling in the midst of
those great, aristocratic avenues, so cold, so tran-
quil, along which it seems that no one ever passes
except in an equipage. Whether the caprice of
their owner was some insane freak of avarice or a
mania for old things, I do not know, but there in
the midst of this beautiful quarter, he had allowed
those waste spaces to remain, with little mouldy
gardens, low houses crookedly built, the staircase
on the outside, and wooden terraces covered with
linen spread to dry, rabbit-cages here and there,
lean cats, and famished tame crows. Here also
had installed themselves mechanics, petty pension-
ers, some few artists — the latter always to be
found where trees are left — and in addition to all
this, there were two or three lodging-houses of
sordid aspect, which looked as if begrimed with
the poverty of generations. All around was the
stir and splendor of the Champs Elysees, an inces-
sant rumbling, the clatter of horses' hoofs, and
the sound of portes-cochhres opening heavily ; ba-
rouches roll by, shaking the portals as they pass,

Arthur, 213

the muffled sound of pianos and the violins of
Mabille Garden are heard ; outlined against the
horizon stand great, silent houses, with swelling
fronts, their windows shaded with light, silken cur-
tains, while behind the tall panes of spotless glass
gleam golden candelabra and jardinieres filled
with rare flowers.

To enter that dark passage-way of the Douze-
Maisons, standing In the midst of the beautiful
scenery of the neighborhood, and lighted at one
end by a single street-lamp, seemed like stepping
behind the scenes in a theatre. The spangles that
decorated all this luxury found a refuge there :
liveried lace, the clown's tights, a vagabond world
of circus-riders, English ostlers, two tiny postilions
of the Hippodrome, with their twin ponies and
advertising- placards; goat-carts, punchinellos,
wafer-sellers, and a whole tribe of blind men re-
turned at evening, loaded with camp-stools, accor-
dions, and bowls. One of these blind men was
married while I lived in the passage, and the event
was the occasion of a concert which lasted all night
long ; a fantastic concert where clarionets, hautboys,
hand-organs, and accordions mingled, while that
procession paraded the various bridges of Paris, to
the droning sound of their various instruments.
But ordinarily the passage was very quiet. These
nomads of the street never returned till dusk, and
then they were tired enough. There was rarely a
racket except on Saturday, when Arthur received
his week's pay.

Arthur was my neighbor. A tiny wall, pro-

214 Monday Tales.

longed by a trellis, separated vny pavilion from the
lodging-house in which he dwelt with his wife, and
so, in spite of myself, his life and mine came in
contact for a time, and every Saturday I was com-
pelled, without losing a single word of it all, to lis-
ten to the horrible drama so often enacted in the
homes of mechanics of this sort, a drama so Paris-
ian in its details. It always began the same way.
The wife would prepare dinner, the children gath-
ering about her. She talked to them in a gentle
voice, and was very busy. Seven o'clock, eight
o'clock, and no one came. As the hours passed
her voice changed in tone, became nervous and
tearful. The children grew hungry and sleepy,
and began to whine. But the husband did not
return. They ate without him. Then, the little
brood in bed, the children asleep, she would ap-
pear upon the wooden balcony, and I could hear
her whisper between her sobs, " Oh, the blackguard,
the blackguard ! "

Neighbors would find her there, and try to
sympathize.

" Come, come, go to bed, Madame Arthur. You
know he '11 not be home to-night. It 's pay-day."

Then advice and gossip would follow.

" I know what I 'd do if I were in your place.
Speak to his employer about it. Why don't
you? "

All this talk merely made her weep the more,
but she persisted in hoping and waiting ; and, com-
pletely worn out, after every door was shut and the
passage silent she would remain there leaning

Arthur, 215

upon her elbow, believing herself quite alone;
absorbed by a single, fixed idea, she would repeat to
herself quite loudly the story of all her misfortunes,
with the abandon of one who has lived half her life
in the streets. They were behindhand with their
rent, every tradesman harassed them, the baker
refused them bread, — and what would she do if
her husband returned again without money? At
last she was too weary to do more than count the
hours and watch belated passers-by. She would
re-enter, but long afterwards, when I thought all
was over, I would hear a cough quite close to me
upon the balcony. The poor woman was there
again. Her restlessness would not permit her to
remain within. She peered into the dark street,
ruining her eyes, and seeing nothing but her own
wretchedness.

Towards one or two o'clock, and sometimes
much later, some one would be heard singing at
the end of the lane. Arthur was returning. More
frequently than not he would come dragging a
boon-companion along with him to the very door,
insisting, ** Come in, come in." And even at the
door he loitered, unable to decide whether or not
he would enter, for he knew well what awaited
him within. As he climbed the stairs the heavy
sound of his footsteps echoed through the silence
of the slumbering house, and filled him with an
uneasy sensation, not unlike remorse. He talked
aloud, pausing before each hovel to remark, " Good
evening, Ma'me Weber; good-evening, Ma'me
Mathieu." If no one answered, he burst forth with

2i6 Monday Tales,

a volley of abuse, and all the windows opened to
return his maledictions. That was what he wished.
In his drunken state he loved brawling and noise ;
and all this warmed him so that he became quite
angry, less afraid to enter, when he reached his
own quarters.

For that moment of entering was a terrible one.

" Open : it is I."

Then I would hear the woman's bare feet upon
the floor, the striking of matches, and the story the
man attempted to tell her as he entered ; it was
always the same : his comrades had led him away.
" What 's-his-name — you know whom I mean —
he works on the railroad — Well ! he — "

The wife paid not the slightest attention to this.

" And your money? "

" There is none left," Arthur's voice would reply.

'' You lie ! "

And he did. No matter how deeply under the
influence of hquor, he always left a few sous un-
spent, anticipating the return of his thirst on Mon-
day. And it was this small remnant of his week's
earnings that she tried to wrest from him. Arthur
struggled, disputed the point.

^'Didn't I tell you I drank it all?" he would
cry. Without response she would descend upon
him with all the strength her indignation and over-
strung nerves had gathered. She shook him, ran-
sacked, turned his pockets inside out. In a few
moments the sound of money rolling upon the
ground would be heard ; the woman would grasp
it eagerly with a triumphant laugh.

Arthur, 217

" There ! you see now ! "

Then followed an oath, the sound of blows
descending heavily ; the drunkard was taking his
revenge. Once he had set out to beat her, he never
paused. All that was vilest, most pernicious in
these dreadful pothouse wines mounted to his
brain, and those fumes must work off their effects
in some way. The woman howled, the last bits of
furniture in their hovel were smashed to pieces, the
children, startled from their sleep, cried with fright,
and all along the passage windows opened, and
listeners remarked, —

*' It is Arthur ! It is Arthur ! " Sometimes the
father-in-law, an old rag-picker who lived in the
neighboring lodging-house, would come to his
daughter's rescue. But Arthur would lock the
door that he need not be disturbed in his task.
Then, through the locked door, a frightful dialogue
would ensue between father and son-in-law, and we
would catch charming fragments such as these :

" Your two years in prison were not enough for
you, you scoundrel ! " the old man would exclaim.
And the drunkard would reply in a superb tone :

" Well ! — I did spend two years in prison !
What of that? At least I have paid my debt to
society ! Try to pay your own."

It seemed a very simple matter to him : " I stole
— you put me in prison. We are quits."

However, when the old man was too persistent
Arthur would grow impatient, open his door, and
fall upon father-in-law, mother-in-law, and neigh-
bors, and like Punchinello fight the whole world.

2i8 Monday Tales,

And yet he was not badly disposed. Many a
Sabbath, on the day after one of these murderous
assaults, this pacified drunkard, with not a sou left
for a drink, would pass the day at home. Chairs
were brought forth from various rooms. Ma'me
Weber, Ma'me Mathieu, and indeed all the lodging-
house, would install themselves upon the balcony
and converse. Arthur played the agreeable, was
the leading spirit; you would have taken him for
one of those model mechanics who are constant
attendants at evening-school. He assumed for the
occasion a lamb-like, mild voice, declaimed frag-
ments of ideas gathered a little from every source,
thoughts concerning the rights of the working-
man, the tyranny of capital. His poor wife, some-
what subdued from the effects of the beating
received the night before, regarded him admiringly ;
nor was she his only admirer.

" Ah, that man, Arthur ! if he only would ! "
Ma'me Weber often murmured with a sigh. To
add the finishing touch, these ladies would ask
him to sing. And he would sing that song of M.
de Belanger, " The Swallows." Oh ! that throaty
voice, full of artificial tears, the working-man's
inane sentimentality ! Beneath the tarred-paper,
mouldy veranda, old clothes were spread out in
every direction, but between the lines a glimpse of
the blue sky was seen, and all that vulgar crowd,
charmed with the unreality of his attitudinizing,
rolled their moistened eyes heavenward.

But all this did not hinder Arthur from spending
his week's pay for drink on the following Saturday

Arthur, 219

night, and beating his wife as usual ; neither could
it hinder the fact that in that wretched rookery was
a whole hive of little Arthurs like their father, wait-
ing only until they arrived at his age to squander
their pay upon drink and beat their wives also.
And that is the race that would govern the world.
" Ah! maladiey' as my neighbors of the passage
used to say.

220 Monday Tales,

t)

THE THIRD READING.

As true as my name is Bdlisaire, and I have my
plane in my hand at this moment, if Papa Thiers
imagines that the fine lesson he has taught us will
be of the sHghtest use to us, it is because he does n't
know the people of Paris. You see, monsieur,
they may shoot us wholesale, transport us, export
us, add Cayenne to Satory, and pack the prison-
ships as close as sardines in a barrel, but the true
Parisian loves a riot, and nothing can destroy that
taste of his. We have it in our blood. What
would you ? It is n't politics so much that amuses
us, but the noise it makes, the closed workshops,
the gatherings, the lounging here and there ; yes,
and there 's another thing I scarcely know how to
explain to you.

To understand it, one should have been born
where I was born. Rue de I'Orillon, in a carpen-
ter's work-shop, should have served an apprentice-
ship from the time he was eight until he was fifteen
years old, trundling a hand-barrow filled with chips
along the faubourg. Ah ! well ! I can truly say I
had my fill of revolutions in those days. Little
though I was then, standing no higher than these
boots of mine, — there was nothing lively astir in
Paris but I was sure to be found on the spot. And

The Third Reading. 221

generally I knew in advance what was afoot.
When I saw workmen walking arm in arm through
the faubourg, taking up the entire sidewalk, while
women stood at their doorways, chattering, gesticu-
lating, and a great mob of people issued from the
barrieres, I said to myself as I wheeled on my chips,
" We are in for it now ! Good enough ! some-
thing's up!"

And in fact there always was. Going home of
an evening, I would enter the shop, and find it full
of people ; friends of my father's were discussing
politics around his bench; some neighbors had
brought him in the newspaper, for in those days
you could not buy one for a sou, as at present.
Those in the same house who wished to take it
clubbed together, a number of them, and passed it
round from story to story. Papa Belisaire, who
was never idle no matter what happened, kept his
plane angrily at work as he listened to the latest
news, and I remember, too, that on such days as
those the moment we seated ourselves at the table
the mother never failed to say to us, —

** Keep quiet, children, your father is out of
sorts on account of political affairs."

You may well believe I did not understand very
much of their cursed politics. All the same there
were a few words that would force themselves into
my head through hearing them so often, as for in-
stance, —

" That rascally Guizot, who has gone to Gand — "

I did n't understand very clearly who that Guizot
was, nor what going " to Gand " might mean, but

222 Monday Tales,

what odds ! I repeated again and again with the
others, —

** Canaille de Guizot ! canaille de Guizot / "
And I was all the more pleased to refer to that
poor Monsieur Guizot as '' canaille " on account of
the fact that in my mind I had confounded him
with a big scoundrel of a policeman who was on
duty at the Rue de I'Orillon, and made my life
miserable for me on account of my barrow of chips.
There was no love lost between the quarter and
that big, red-faced fellow. Children, dogs, every
one was at his heels ; there was, however, a wine-
seller who used to try to gain him over by slipping
a glass of wine to him through a small opening in
his shop. The big red face would come nearer
and nearer, with an innocent air, and glance from
right to left to see that none of his superiors were
about, then, as he passed — whew! I've never
seen any one else toss down a glass of wine as
quickly as he did ! Sly fellow ! one had only to lie
in wait for the moment when his elbow was raised
to his mouth, steal behind him, and cry out, —
" Look out ! sergo! The officer 's coming,"
The people of Paris are all just like that. The
policeman bears the brunt of everything. For
every one is accustomed to hate these poor devils,
to regard them as curs. If the ministry commit
follies, the police pay the penalty, and once a
glorious revolution is in progress, the ministry de-
part for Versailles, the policemen are thrown into
the canal.

But to return to what I was telling you, —

The Third Reading, 223

whenever there was anything of importance going
on in Paris, I was one of the first to know it. On
those days all the small fry of the quarter would
hold their meetings too, and together we would go
down the faubourg. We could hear people ex-
claiming, "■ It is at Rue Montmartre ! no — at Porte
Saint-Denis." Others, whose business took them
in that direction, would return, furious, because
they had been unable to pass. Women were seen
running towards the bakers' shops. Carriage en-
trances were closed. All this excitement went to
our heads. We sang as we passed by, we jostled
the little street vendors, who were quickly gather-
ing up their goods and their baskets, as if it were
some terribly stormy day. Sometimes when we
reached the canal the bridges of the locks were
already turned. Fiacres and trucks were com-
pelled to wait there. Cabmen were cursing, and
every one was uneasy. On the run we would scale
the steps of the foot-bridge which at that time
separated the faubourg from the Rue du Temple,
and then we reached the boulevards.

Oh ! what fun upon the boulevard on the day
of mardi gras or on the day of a riot ! Scarcely a
carriage to be seen. One could rush along at his
ease upon the driveway. When they saw us pass,
the shopkeepers of every quarter knew well what
it meant, and closed their shops quickly. We
heard the clatter of shutters, but once their stores
were closed these people would occupy the side-
walk in front of their doors, for with the Parisian
no feeling is stronger than that of curiosity.

224 Monday Tales,

At last we would perceive a black mass, the mob
itself, obstructing all travel. There it was ! But
to see it properly one must stand in the first row;
and I can tell you, one was well thumped before
he got there. However, by dint of shoving, jost-
ling, sliding between the legs of others, we at last
got where we wanted to be. Once we had taken
our places in front of everybody, we breathed more
freely, and were proud enough. And indeed the
spectacle was worth all the trouble of getting there.
No, beheve me, neither Monsieur Bocage nor
Monsieur MeHngue ever gave me such a flutter
of the heart as that I felt when, looking ahead,
in an open space at the end of the street I saw
the chief of police advancing, decorated with his
sash.

I heard the others exclaim, " The commissaire !
the commissaire ! "

But I said nothing. My teeth were tightly closed
through pleasure and terror combined ; what I
felt was indescribable. I thought to myself, —

" The commissaire has come ! Now look out for
blows from his club."

It was not so much the blows from his club that
impressed me as that big devil of a man himself,
with his sash upon his black swallow-tail coat and
that huge hat de monsieur he wore, which gave
him the appearance of being out visiting, as it
rose in the midst of all those shakos and cocked
hats. That made a tremendous impression upon
me. After a flourish from the drum, the chief of
police began to mumble something. He was so

The Third Reading. 225

far from us that in spite of the intense silence his
voice was lost in air, and all we could hear was —

** Mn — mil — mil — "

But we were as thoroughly posted as himself
about the riot laws. We knew that we were en-
titled to three readings of the Riot Act before his
stick could whack us. At the first reading no one
budged an inch. We stood there undisturbed, our
hands in our pockets. It is true that when the
drum beat the second time some began to grow
green, and to look right and left, to see which way
he would pass. When the third time came,/-r-r-/ !
It was like the flight of a flock of partridges. There
were howls, cat-cries; aprons, caps, and hats be-
gan to disappear, while behind them clubs pro-
ceeded to belabor on every side. Ah ! no ! there
is no play on the stage that could ever give you
such emotions as those. It was food for seven
days' talk, when we related all this to the others
who had not seen it ; and how proud they were who
could say, —

" I heard the third reading ! "

It must be said, however, that for the sake of
the fun one often risked losing some of his hide.
Just imagine ! One day — it was at Pointe Saint-
Eustache — I don't know how the commissaire
had reckoned, but no sooner was the second read-
ing disposed of than the constables set to work,
clubs in the air. I did not remain in waiting for
them very long, you may believe. But all in vain
I stretched my small legs to the utmost ; one of
those big devils fell upon me, and went for me at

IS

226 Monday Tales.

such very short notice that after I had felt his
stick whiz about me two or three times, he ended
by giving it to me straight upon the head. Lord !
what a whack ! I had never seen so many stars in
my Hfe before. They brought me home with a
broken head. But if you think that made me
mend my ways — ah well ! hardly ; all the time
poor Mamma Belisaire was making compresses for
me, I never once ceased exclaiming, —

" It is n't my fault. It is that rascally commis^
saire, who played a trick upon all of us. He read
the Riot Act only twice ! "

A First- Night Performance, 227

A FIRST-NIGHT PERFORMANCE.

IMPRESSIONS OF THE AUTHOR.

It was to begin at eight. In five minutes the
curtain would rise. Stage-carpenters, manager,
and property-man, every one was at his post. The
actors in the first scene had placed themselves, and
taken appropriate attitudes. I peeped for one last
time through the gap of the curtain. The' house
was crowded, — fifteen hundred heads, one row
rising above another ; the lights fell upon a smiling
and animated audience. I recognized a few faces
in it, but only vaguely ; their physiognomies seemed
to me quite changed. Their faces wore a quizzical
expression, their manner was arrogant, dogmatic,
and already I could see lorgnettes aimed in my di-
rection like pistols. In one part of the house I did
discern a few dear faces, grown pale with anxiety
and expectation ; but how many were purely in-
different, and even unfavorably disposed !

And all that these people brought with them
from the outer world, all their recklessness, preoc-
cupation, listlessness, and mistrust, must be dis-
pelled ; that atmosphere of ennui and disaffection
must be penetrated, — a common idea move all these
human beings ; my drama, to live, must draw its in-
spiration from those inexorable eyes. I would have

228 Monday Tales,

delayed, prevented the curtain from rising, but no !
it is too late now. I hear the three taps of the
stick, a prelude from the orchestra, and then there
is a deep silence. From the wings comes a voice
which sounds hollow and far away, lost in the im-
mensity of the house. My play has begun. Ah,
wretched one ! what have I done?

An awful moment ! I know not where to turn,
or what will become of me. Should one remain
there, leaning against a gas-wing, ears strained to
hear, and heart refusing to beat? — encourage the
actors when he so greatly needs some encourage-
ment himself? — talk, scarcely knowing what he is
saying, and smile when the dazed look in his eyes
betrays that his thought is far away? Confound it
all, I would rather slip into the house somewhere,
and stand face to face with danger !

Concealed in a box in the pit, I try to seem an
indifferent spectator, quite apart from it all, and as
if I had not seen the dust of those boards cHnging
to my play for the past two months, as if I myself
had not decided upon every gesture, every least
detail of the mounting of the piece, from the mech-
anism of entrances and exits even to the turning up
of the gas. A singular feeling possesses me. I
wish to listen, and yet cannot. I am uneasy, com-
pletely upset. I hear the quick turning of keys in
the box-doors, the moving of stools, fits of con-
tagious coughing, one voice answering another, —
whispered conversations behind fans, the rustling
of gowns, a multitude of insignificant sounds that
seem of enormous dimensions to me ; gestures and

A First- Night Performance, 229

attitudes that seem to show hostility, backs that
appear to wear a discontented air, and sprawling
elbows, intercept the entire scene.

In front of me a very young man wearing eye-
glasses, who is taking notes with a grave air,
observes, —

^' It is puerile ! "

In a box at my side a low voice is saying, —

** To-morrow, you remember."

" Is it to-morrow?"

" Yes, to-morrow without fail."

It would appear that great importance is attached
to to-morrow in the minds of these people. I am
thinking only of to-day. In the midst of all this
confusion, not a point of my play tells, nothing
makes the least impression. The voices of the
actors, instead of rising, filling the house, are lost
before they reach the footlights, fall with a dull
sound into the prompter's box, amid an inane clap-
ping of hands from the claque. What ails that
gentleman who sits up aloft? What vexes him?
I am really intimidated. I go out.

When I reach the street I find it is dark and
rainy, but I scarcely perceive that. Boxes and gal-
leries with luminous rows of heads are whirling be-
fore me, and in their midst one fixed and shining
point, — the scene on the stage. This grows
fainter as I get farther away from it. I walk on,
in fruitless effort to pull myself together ; I cannot
efface that accursed scene, and the drama, which I
know by heart, continues to play itself out, — drags
on lugubriously in my brain. It is as though I

230 Monday Tales.

carried about with me some evil dream, with which
mingle the people who jostle against me, and the
slush and noise of the street. At the edge of the
boulevard a sharp whistle stops me, and I grow
pale. Imbecile ! It is merely a whistle starting an
omnibus. As I walk on, the rain increases. I im-
agine that in the theatre too it must be raining
upon my drama, that its own weight has killed it,
that it falls to pieces, and that my heroes, ashamed
and worn out, are plodding after me along the wet
sidewalks which glisten beneath the gaslight.

To dispel these gloomy ideas, I enter a cafe. I
try to read, but the letters run together, dance,
spread apart, and whirl. I cannot even tell what
these words are trying to say ; they seem bizarre,
devoid of meaning. This reminds me of an inci-
dent of some years ago. It was at sea, the weather
very stormy. I tried to read. Beneath a roof
flooded with water, where I lay, I had found and
tried to read an English grammar. There with the
roar of the waves in my ears and the sound of the
wrenching of masts, — to divert myself from dan-
ger, to avoid seeing those torrents of greenish
water that fell upon the deck, pouring all over it,
I devoted all my energies to the absorbing study of
the English th. But vainly did I read aloud, repeat
the words, shouting them almost; my brain was
deafened with the howling of the sea, the sharp
whistling of the blast through the yards.

The paper I am holding at this moment seems
to me as incomprehensible as was my English
grammar ; however, perhaps because I have stared

A First-Night Performance. 231

so closely at the big sheet spread out before me,
I seem to see printed in sharp, concise lines to-
morrow's articles, and my own name discussed in
phrases that stick like thorns, written with a pen
dipped in gall. Suddenly the gas is turned down.
The cafe is closing.

Is it time for that? What can be the hour?

The boulevards are full of people. The theatres
are emptied. Doubtless I pass some who have
seen my play. I would like to question them,
know what they thought, but at the same time I
pass on quickly, that I need not overhear reflec-
tions aloud, whole feiiilletons in the streets. Ah !
how happy are they who can return homeward
with the consciousness that they have never written
a play !

I stand before the theatre. It is closed. The
lights are extinguished. Decidedly I shall gain
no information to-night, but, as I look at the
damp bill-boards and the great candelabra whose
lights blink at the entrance, an intense sadness
comes over me. That great building, which a while
ago lent light and animation to all this part of the
boulevard, is dull and lifeless now, gloomy, deserted,
and dripping as though after a fire. Ah, well ! At
last it is over. Six long months of labor, of dreams,
weariness alternating with hope, all they meant is
lost, shrivelled, melted into nothingness in a single
evening, under the glaring gaslight.

232 Monday Tales,

CHEESE-SOUP.

It was a little chamber in the fifth story, one of
those attics where the rain beats straight upon the
skylight ; at the present hour, when night has come,
such rooms seem to be lost, roof and all, in gloom
and storm. And yet this chamber is pleasant,
cozy, and upon entering it, one feels an indescriba-
ble sensation of comfort, which the gusts of wind
without, and the torrents of rain dripping from the
gutters only increase. You might almost believe
yourself to be in a warm nest at the top of some
tall tree. For the moment the nest is empty ; its
occupant is not there, but you feel sure he will soon
return. Everything within seems to await his
coming. Upon a smothered fire a little soup-
kettle is boiling tranquilly with a murmur of satis-
faction. It keeps rather a late vigil, and although
accustomed to that, judging by its sides browned
through frequent contact with the flames, it becomes
impatient now and then, and its cover rises, stirred
by the steam ; then a warm, appetizing whiff as-
cends, and permeates the whole chamber.

Oh ! the delicious odor of cheese-soup !

At times too the fire clears itself of cinders,
which come tumbling down through the logs, while
a tiny flame darts out its tongue from beneath,

Cheese-Soup, 233

lighting the lower part of the room, as if making a
tour of inspection to be assured that everything is
in order. Ah, yes, order itself reigns there, and
the master may return any moment he chooses.
The Algerian curtains are drawn in front of the
windows, and draped comfortably about the bed.
There is the big arm-chair spreading itself at full
length in front of the fire ; the table stands in one
corner, the cloth spread, dishes set for one solitary
diner, the lamp ready to be lighted, and beside the
plate is a book, the companion of that lonely re-
past. And not only is the soup-pot worn through
frequent contact with the fire, but the flowers upon
each dish are also faded, through repeated wash-
ings, and the book is worn at the edges. Age and
long use have softened the appearance of all these
well-worn things. One feels too that this lodger is
obliged to return very late each evening, and that
it pleases him, when he enters, to find that little
supper simmering away, perfuming and warming
the chamber to which he returns.

Oh ! the savory odor of cheese-soup !

Observing the neatness of that bachelor apart-
ment, I imagine that its tenant must be some em-
ploy^, one of those beings whose devotion to the
minutest details compels them to regulate all their
living with the same punctuality with which they
dispose of things official, and as methodically as
they label each portfolio.

The extreme lateness of his return would seem
to indicate that he is one of the night force in the
postal or telegraph service. I fancy I see him,

234 Monday Tales,

seated behind a grating, his half-sleeves of lustrine
drawn up to the elbow, his velvet calotte upon his
head, while he sorts and stamps letters, winds the
blue banderoles of despatches, preparing for Paris
asleep, or awake in pursuit of pleasure, the affairs
of to-morrow.

But no — this is not his business. For, as it
penetrates each recess of the chamber, the tiny-
flame of the hearth gleams upon large photo-
graphs hanging on the walls. Emerging from the
shadow, framed in gold and magnificently draped,
may be seen the Emperor Augustus, Mahomet,
Felix, Roman knight, Armenian governor, crowns,
helmets, tiaras, and turbans, while beneath all these
different head-dresses there is always the same
head, erect and solemn, the head of the master of
the place, the fortunate and lordly personage for
whom that fragrant soup simmers away, bubbling
gently upon the warm cinders.

Oh ! the dehcious odor of that cheese-soup !

Ah, no ! this is no employe of the post-office.
This is some emperor, a world-master, one of
those providential beings who on those evenings
when the repertoire is given causes the roof of the
Odeon to tremble, one who has merely to com-
mand, '* Seize him, guards ! " and the guards obey
on the instant. At this present moment he is
there in his palace, across the water. With bus-
kined heels, his chlamys upon his shoulder, he
wanders beneath porticos, declaiming with por-
tentous frown, wearing a wearied air through all
his tragic tirades. And indeed it is dispiriting to

Cheese-Soup, 235

play to empty benches. And the auditorium of
the Odeon seems so vast, so cold, on the evening
of a tragedy ! Suddenly the emperor, half-frozen
beneath his purple, feels a warm thrill run through
his body. His eye kindles, his nostrils dilate.
For he is dreaming of the warm room to which he
will return, the table set, the lamp ready to light,
all his little belongings arranged in order, with that
homely attention to trifles shown by the actor
who in private life makes amends for stage extrav-
agances and irregularities. He fancies himself un-
covering that soup-pot and filling his flowered
plate.

Oh, the savory odor of that cheese-soup !

From that moment he is no longer the same
man. The stiff folds of his chlamys, the marble
stairs, the coldness of the porticos, these things
vex him no longer. He becomes animated, has-
tens the play, precipitates the action. For what if
his fire should go out ! As the evening advances,
the vision grows nearer, and puts new life into him.
Miraculous ! the Od^on itself seems to be thawing.
The old habitues of the orchestra, aroused from
their torpor, find this Marancourt truly magnifi-
cent, especially in the last scenes. And indeed, as
the dMotlmeiit approaches the decisive hour when
the traitors are to be poniarded, and princesses to
be married, the face of the emperor wears a beatific
expression, an air of singular serenity. His stom-
ach hollow with hunger after so many emotions
and tirades, he fancies he is at home again, seated at
his little table, and his glance wanders from Cinna

236 Monday Tales.

to Maximus with a kindly and tender smile, as
though already he saw those charming white threads
which lengthen on the end of a spoon when cheese-
soup, after simmering properly, is just cooked, and
poured out piping-hot.

The Last Book, 237

THE LAST BOOK.

" He is dead ! " some one said to me on the
stairway.

For some days past I had been expecting this
sad news. I knew that at any moment the tidings
might greet me upon the threshold, and yet there
was something of unexpectedness in the blow when
it came. With heavy heart and trembling lips I
entered the humble apartment of a man of letters.
The room in which his work had been done was
the most prominent of all, for the despotism of
learning had monopolized whatever comfort or
light the home possessed.

He lay there upon an iron bed — very Ipw and
small it was ; his table was loaded with papers ;
his large handwriting cut short in the middle of
the page, his pen still standing in his ink-bottle,
told how suddenly death had smitten him. Behind
the bed, a tall, oaken press, overflowing with papers
and manuscripts, stood half open, almost at his
head. About him on every side, books, — noth-
ing but books ; in every corner, on shelves, on chairs,
on the desk, piled upon the floor, in corners, even
to the foot of the bed. When he was writing, seated
at his table, these piles of books, this litter upon
which no dust had gathered, could please the eyes.

238 Monday Tales,

They seemed to be alive, they suggested the activity
of labor. But in this chamber of death the sight of
them was mournful. All these poor books piled
up and toppling over looked now as though they
too were ready to start upon a journey, to be lost
in the great library of chance, scattered in auction-
rooms, upon the quays, in shop-windows, their
leaves fingered by the wind and by the passing
lounger.

I embraced him where he lay, and stood gazing
at him, startled as I touched his forehead, cold and
heavy as stone. Suddenly the door opened. A
clerk from some publisher entered joyously, loaded
down, out of breath, and threw upon the table a
package of books fresh from the press.

*' Bachehn sent these," he exclaimed ; then ob-
serving the figure upon the bed, he recoiled, raised
his cap, and retired discreetly.

It seemed horribly ironic that this package, whose
sending had been delayed for a month, this pack-
age awaited by the sick man with so much impa-
tience, should have been received by the dead.
Poor friend ! it was his last book, the one for which
he expected most. With what minute carefulness
his hands, trembling even then with fever, had cor-
rected the proof-sheets. How he longed to hasten
the day when he would handle that first edition !
During the last days of his illness, when he could
no longer speak, his eyes gazed fixedly towards the
door, and if the printers, proof-readers,,binders, and
all that world of people employed in bringing into
the world the work of one individual could have seen

The Last Book. 239

that anguished and expectant glance, every hand
would have hastened its work ; the type would have
been set in pages more rapidly, the pages would
have grown into volumes, that they might have
reached him in time, that is to say, a day earlier,
and thus have given the dying man the delight
of recognizing, in well-printed sentences, about
which clung all the fragrance of a new book, those
ideas which he felt were already fading, vanishing
from his memory.

And even in the very plenitude of life that pleas-
ure is one of which a writer never wearies. To
open a first copy of his work, to see it assume
definite form, which stands out in bold outhne,his
thoughts no longer seething in the brain, no longer
in that first ebullition where all is as yet somewhat
vague, — what a delightful sensation ! In youth,
it simply dazzles one ; the letters almost blind him,
run together, look blue and yellow at once, as
though his very brain were intoxicated with sun-
shine. Later, with this joy of the author mingles
a tinge of sadness, of regret that he has not said
all he wished to say. That within him which has
never said itself in words seems always far more
beautiful than that which is already accomplished.
How much is lost in that journey from the brain
to the hand ! In his deepest dreaming, the con-
ception of the book seems to resemble one of those
lovely mediiscB of the Mediterranean, which flit
through the sea hke floating phantoms, but when
they lie upon the sand, nothing is seen but water, a
few discolored drops that are soon dried in the air.

240 Monday Tales,

Alas ! of these joys and disillusions the poor
fellow received none from his last work. It was
heart-rending to gaze at this Hfeless head, droop-
ing so heavily upon the pillow, asleep in death,
while at his side was that book, so fresh and new,
that book which would soon be seen in the shop-
windows, form a part of the talk of the street, the
hfe of the day, — whose title passers-by would
read mechanically, carrying it away in the memory,
impressed upon the retina, with the name of its
author inscribed now upon that sadder leaf of the
city's register — that name whose letter looked so
bright, so^ gay on the cover, its color still fresh,
unfaded. The entire problem of the soul and the
body seemed to be there ; that rigid corpse would
so soon be given to earth and forgotten, while the
book, starting forth on its life apart from him, like
a visible soul, was full of vitality, and perhaps — a
thing immortal.

" He promised me a first edition," I heard a
lachrymose voice near me whisper. I looked
around, and my glance met the keen eye of a gold-
spectacled enthusiast. I was acquainted with him,
and you also are, my friends who write. He was
the bibliophile who knocks at your door as soon
as your volume is announced, — two timid but per-
sistent knocks that resemble himself He enters
smiling, bowing low, wriggling about you, and he
addresses you as '' dear master ! " and does not
depart without carrying away your last book.
Merely the last ! He has all the others. This
only he still lacks. And how can one refuse him ?

The Last Book, 241

He arrives so opportunely, he knows just when
to catch you, while you are still in the midst of
that joy of which we were speaking, full of the
abandon of the Envoy or the Dedication. Ah !
that terrible little man, whom nothing rebuffs,
neither heavy doors nor frozen greetings, neither
wind, rain, nor distance. Of a morning you en-
counter him in the Rue de la Pompe, knocking
at the low door of the Patriarch of Passy. At
nightfall he returns from Marly with Sardou's
latest drama under his arm. And so, forever
upon the go, always in quest, he fills his hours,
though he works not, fills his shelves, though he
buys not.

Surely this passion for books must have been
very strong in the man, to have brought him even
to the bedside of the dead.

" Here is your copy — take it," I said impa-
tiently. He not merely took it, he swallowed it
up. Once the volume had quite disappeared in
his pocket he remained there without budging,
without speaking; his head leaning upon his elbow,
he wiped his glasses with a softened air. What
was he waiting for? What kept him there? Per-
haps some passing feeling of shame, embarrass-
ment at the thought of leaving so suddenly, as if he
had merely come for the book?

Ah, no !

Upon the table, the wrapper half removed, he
had perceived copies the book-lover prizes — their
edges rough, uncut, wide margins, vignettes, and
tailpieces. In spite of his meditative attitude, his

16

242 Mo7iday Tales,

pensive absorption, all was revealed. The wretch
had caught sight of them.

Oh, this mania for seeing things ! Even I myself
was distracted for a moment from my emotion.
Through my tears I could not help following that
painful bit of comedy played at the dead man's
bedside. Slowly, with little invisible jerks, the
book-lover approached the table. His hand, as if
by chance, closed upon one of those volumes ; he
turned it about, opened it, fingered the leaves. By
degrees his eye kindled, the blood mounted to his
cheeks. The magic of the book operated upon
him. At last he could no longer contain his emo-
tion. He captured a copy. '* It is far Monsieur
de Sainte-Beuve," he said half audibly ; and in his
feverish anxiety and fear lest some one should take
it from him, perhaps, too, to convince me that it
was indeed intended for Monsieur de Sainte-Beuve,
he added, very gravely, in a tone of indescribable
compunction, " of the Academie frangaise ! " and
disappeared.

House for Sale ! 243

HOUSE FOR SALE!

Above the gate, a wooden gate, badly put
together, and not preventing the sandy soil of the
little garden from mingling with the earth of the
road, a sign had hung for some time, scarcely
stirred under the sun of summer, but twisted and
shaken by every gale of autumn : House for Sale !
And something seemed to say that it was a deserted
house as well, so deep was the silence surround-
ing it.

And yet some one dwelt there. A tiny bluish
ring of smoke ascending from the brick chimney
which rose slightly above the wall, betrayed that
an existence was in hiding here, — an existence as
sad, as inobtrusive as the smoke of that meagre
fire. Through the loose and rickety boards of
that gate could be seen, not the abandon and
emptiness, that indescribable something in the air
which precedes and announces an auction sale and
departure, but instead were trim walks, rounded
arbors, water-cans near an artificial basin, and
gardener's tools leaning against the side of the tiny
house. It was merely a peasant's cottage built
on an incline, propped by a tiny stairway, which
placed the first story on the shady side, the ground-
floor facing the south. On that side it looked hke

244 Mo7iday Tales,

a hothouse. There were bell-glasses piled up
along the walks, empty flower-pots turned upside
down; others, in rows and filled with geraniums
and verbenas, stood in the warm, white sand. Ex-
cept for the shade of three great plane trees, the
garden basked in sunshine. A fruit-wall, and
fruit trees with fan-shaped props of iron wire
stood in the sunshine, somewhat robbed of their
leafage, but merely for the sake of the fruit.
There were strawberry-beds too, and peas well
propped ; in the midst of all these things, sur-
rounded by order and calm, an old man in a straw
hat went up and down through the walks all day
long, watering his garden through the early
hours of the day, pruning branches, and trimming
borders.

The old man knew no one in the neighborhood.
Except for the baker's wagon, which stopped at
every door of the only street in the village, he
never received a visit. Sometimes, in search of
one of those lots of land half-way up the hill,
always fruitful, and making such charming or-
,chards, some passer-by would sight the sign, and
pause to ring.

At first the house would remain deaf. At the
second ring there was heard the sound of wooden
shoes approaching slowly from the farthest end of
the garden, and the old man opened the door half-
way with a furious air.

" What do you want? "

'* Is this house for sale? "

"Yes," answered the worthy man, with some

House for Sale ! 245

effort. *' Yes, it is for sale, but I will tell you in
advance that the price is very high;" and his
hand was placed upon the door, ready to close it
and obstruct all entrance. And his eyes com-
pelled you to go away, they showed such anger ;
he remained there, guarding like a dragon his
plots of vegetables and his little sand-yard. Peo-
ple passed on their way, asking themselves what
maniac this might be with whom they had to deal,
and what was meant by this folly of putting up
that sign " For Sale," and showing such desire that
his house should remain unsold.

The mystery was explained to me. One day as
I passed the little house, I heard the sound of ani-
mated voices in eager discussion.

** It must be sold, papa, it must be sold. You
promised."

And the tremulous voice of the old man was
heard, —

" But, my children, I ask nothing better than to
sell it. Look ! Have I not put up a sign ? "

I thus learned that these were his sons and his
daughters-in-law, petty Parisian shopkeepers, who
were compelling him to dispose of this well-loved
spot. For what reason? I do not know. But
one thing was certain : they had begun to find that
matters were moving too slowly ; and from that day
they appeared regularly every Sunday to harass
the unfortunate man, and oblige him to keep his
promise. In that deep Sabbath stillness, when
even the earth itself rests after sowing and laboring
all week long, I could hear those voices very

246 Monday Tales,

plainly from the road. The shopkeepers were
talking, arguing among themselves, as they played
tonjieau, and that word " money," spoken by those
sharp voices, had all the hard metallic sound of the
quoits they were tossing. In the evening they
would all depart again, and after the old man had
reconducted them along the road for a few steps
he returned quickly, and gladly closed his big gate,
with another week of respite before him. For
seven days* space the house was silent again. In
the little sun-baked garden nothing could be heard
but the sound of sand crushed under a heavy foot,
and the dragging of a rake.

But as weeks went on the old man was tor-
mented and pressed more and more. The shop-
keepers employed every means. Little children
were brought there to seduce him.

"Don't you see, grandpapa? when the house
is sold you shall live with us ! We shall all be so
happy together." And there were whispered
asides in every corner, endless promenades along
the walks, calculations made in a loud voice.
On one occasion I heard one of the daughters
exclaim, —

" The shanty is not worth a hundred sous. It is
only fit to be torn down."

The old man listened silently. They talked of
him as though he were already dead, of his house
as if it were already demolished. He walked
about, his body bent, his eyes full of tears, through
force of habit feeling for a branch he might prune,
a fruit he might care for, in passing, and it was

House for Sale ! 247

evident that his life was so firmly rooted In this
little spot of earth that he had not strength to tear
himself away from it. And, indeed, no matter
what was said to him, he always contrived to put
off the moment of departure. In summer, with the
ripening of those slightly acid fruits which exhale
the freshness of the season, as the cherries and the
currants black and red ripened, he said, —

" We must wait till after they have been gath-
ered. I will sell it immediately after that."

But after the gathering, when the cherry season
had gone by, came the peaches, then the grapes,
and after the grapes those beautiful brown medlars
which may be gathered almost up to the time of
the first snow-fall. Then winter arrived. The
country was dismal then, the garden had nothing
left in it. No passers-by, no purchasers. The
shopkeepers themselves no longer appeared of a
Sunday. Three long months of rest in which to
prepare for the sowing, to prune the fruit trees
while that useless sign rocked back and forth upon
the road, swayed by wind and rain.

At length, grown impatient, and persuaded that
the old man was striving to drive away every pur-
chaser, his children took a decided step. One
of the daughters-in-law proceeded to install her-
self in the house, — a little shopwoman, finely
arrayed from early morning, comely in appear-
ance, and possessing that artificial sweetness, that
obsequious amiability cultivated by people accus-
tomed to a commercial life. The very highway
seemed to belong to her. She opened the gate

248 Monday Tales,

wide, talked loudly, smiling at every passer-by, as
if to say, —

** Come in. Don't you see that the house is for
sale?"

No more respite for the poor old man. At
times he would endeavor to forget her presence,
dig his garden-plots, and sow them once more,
as a man who stands in the presence of death,
and loves to delude even his fears by devising
new plans. But all the time the shopwoman fol-
lowed him about, tormenting him : " Bah ! what
good is that? — You are taking all this trouble
for others ! "

He never replied to her, but continued his work
with a singular obstinacy. Had he let his garden
alone, he would have felt that already it was partly
lost to him, that he must begin to wean himself
from it ; therefore he did not permit a single blade
of grass in the walks, or a single gourmand among
his rose bushes.

Meanwhile purchasers did not present them-
selves. The war was in progress, and all in vain
did the woman keep that gate wide open, and
make eyes affably at the road. She saw loads of
furniture moved away, nothing more. Only dust
entered at the gate. From day to day the woman's
temper grew more sour. Her business in Paris
needed her presence. I heard her heap reproaches
upon her father-in-law, make genuine scenes with
him, slamming the doors. The old man bent his
back and said nothing, but consoled himself with
watching his little peas beginning to chmb, and

House for Sale ! 249

with seeing always in the same place that sign,
House for Sale !

That year, when I arrived in the country, I rec-
ognized the house, but alas ! the sign was no
longer there. Torn, mouldy placards still hung
along the walls, but all was over ! The house
had been sold. Instead of the great gray entrance
was a green gate, freshly painted, with a swelling
fronton, and a small grated opening through
which one could peep into the garden. It was no
longer the fruit-orchard of other days, but a bour-
geois heap of flower-beds, of lawns and cascades,
and everything was reflected in a huge metal ball
which swayed back and forth in front of the steps.
Reflected in this ball the walks were seen bordered
with gaudy flower-beds, and two figures whose
size was even exaggerated ; one was a big, red-
faced man, dripping with perspiration, and buried
in a rustic chair; the other was an enormous
woman, who cried, quite out of breath, as she
brandished a watering-pot, —

" I have put fourteen canfuls upon the balsams ! "
They had built for themselves, renovated the
palisades, and in this little house, completely re-
modelled and still smelling of paint, a piano was
playing familiar quadrilles and polkas and dance-
hall airs at full speed. This dance-music, which
could be heard out on the road, making one warm
to listen, the thick dust of that July day, the
vulgar display of big flowers and fat women, this
excessive and trivial gayety rent my heart. I was
thinking of the poor old man who used to walk

250 Monday Tales,

there, so happy and peaceful. I pictured him in
Paris, his straw hat upon his head ; I seemed to see
the bent shoulders of the old gardener as he wan-
dered about in the middle of some back shop,
weary, timid, tearful, while his daughter-in-law, the
triumphant owner of a new counter, jingled the
money the little house had brought.

Yule- Tide Stories, 251

YULE-TIDE STORIES.

I.

A CHRISTMAS-EVE REVEL IN THE MARAIS.

M. Majeste, manufacturer of seltzer- water in
the Marais, has been celebrating Christmas-eve
with a little party of friends in the Place Royale,
and now is returning homeward, humming a tune
to himself Saint Paul strikes two. " How late it
is ! " says the good man, and he hastens. But
the pavement is slippery, the streets dark, and,
besides, in that infernal old quarter, which dates
from the days when vehicles were rare, there are so
many windings, corners, and spur-stones in front
of the gates for the convenience of horsemen, that
all these things prevent a man from making speed,
especially when his legs are a little heavy, and his
eyes somewhat dimmed, after all the toasts of the
evening. However, M. Majesty reaches home at
last. He pauses before a tall, decorated portal
where a scutcheon lately gilded, gleams in the
light of the moon ; the ancient armorial bearings
have been re-painted, and now serve as the sign of
his manufacturing establishment, —

Former Hotel de Nesmond.

MAJESTY Junior,

Manufacturer of Seltzer-Water.

252 Monday Tales.

Upon all the siphons of the factory, on bill-heads
and letter-heads also, are displayed the ancient,
resplendent arms of Nesmond.

The portal passed, the courtyard is entered ; it
is large, bright, and airy, and in the day-time, when
its entrance is opened, all the street is lighted by
it. At the farther end is a great building, very
ancient, the dark walls carved and decorated,
swelling balconies of iron, stone balconies with
pilasters, immense, lofty windows, surmounted with
frontons, their capitals rising even to the top story ;
there was roof within roof, and, crowning all, dor-
mer windows looked out from masses of slate, each
encircled with garlands like a mirror. There was
also a great stone stairway, corroded from many a
rain ; a poor lean vine clung to the walls, as black
as the cord hanging from the pulley in the loft ;
an indescribable air of sadness and decay clung
to everything. This was the ancient Hotel de
Nesmond. By day the aspect of the place was
different. The words *' Officey Shop, Workman's
Entrance^' standing in gilded letters upon the old
walls, make them look alive and modern. Teams
from the railway stations pass and shake the portal.
Clerks come to the stone steps, each with pen be-
hind his ear, and ready to receive merchandise.
The courtyard is loaded with cases, baskets, straw,
and packing-cloth. It is easily perceived that this
is a factory. But in the deep silence of the night,
when the wintry moonlight darts through that
mass of complicated roofs, its light interwoven
with shadows, the ancient house of the Nesmonds

Yule-Tide Stories, 253

assumes once more its seigniorial aspect. The
carving of the balconies looks like lace-work, the
court of honor seems larger than before, and
the old staircase, unequally lighted, has nooks
which remind you of dim cathedral corners, empty
niches and hidden steps like those of an altar.

And on this special evening M. Majesty finds
that his house presents a singular appearance. As
he crosses the deserted courtyard the sound of his
footsteps impresses him. The staircase seems
immense to him, and difficult to climb. No doubt
the festivities of the evening have something to do
with this. Arrived at the first story he stops to
regain breath, and approaches a window. Ah ! see
what it is to inhabit an historic house. Monsieur
Majeste is not poetical, no, indeed ! and yet, as he
looks upon that beautiful, aristocratic courtyard,
where the moon spreads a veil of blue light, as he
looks at this venerable place, once a nobleman's
residence and now appearing as if asleep, its roofs
benumbed beneath their hood of snow, thoughts of
the other world come to him,

" Well, now ! what if the Nesmonds returned?"
At this moment a loud ringing of bells reaches
his ears ; the folding-doors at the entrance of the
house open so quickly and brusquely that the
street-lamp is extinguished, and for some moments
there is heard below, in the doorway wrapped in
shadow, an indistinct sound, the sound of voices
whispering, that mingle with a rustling noise.
They dispute, press forward, hasten to enter.
Lackeys, innumerable lackeys are there, coaches

254 Monday Tales,

with plate-glass doors and windows gleam in the
moonlight, sedan-chairs move to and fro, a torch
on each side flaming up as the current of air from
the portal strikes them. In no time the courtyard
is full of people. But at the foot of the stone steps
the confusion ceases. People are seen descending
from their carriages, bowing to each other ; they
enter, talking together as if they are acquainted
with the house. There is a rustling of silk on the
steps, a clatter of swords. Only white heads are
seen, locks so heavily powdered that they look dull
and dead ; all these voices are thin and clear, and
slightly tremulous ; their tiny peals of laughter are
hollow, without volume; their footsteps scarcely
seem to touch the ground. All these men and
women appear to be old, very old. Their eyes are
sunken ; their jewels have no glow of fire ; the
ancient silks they wear shimmer softly with chang-
ing tints which gleam faintly beneath the light
from the torches ; and above all this splendor floats
a little cloud of powder, which rises from all these
heads with coiffures piled up high and rolled into
little ringlets ; at each of their charming courtesies,
somewhat stiff because of swords and big pan-
niers, that tiny cloud rises. Soon the entire house
appears to be haunted. Torches gleam from
window to window, go up and down along the
winding stairs, and are seen even in the dormer
windows of the roof, which catch a gleam of all this
animation and merry-making. The entire Hotel de
Nesmond is illumined as if a bright ray from the
setting sun had kindled its windows.

Yule-Tide Stories, 255

" Ah, mo7t Dieti ! they will set the house afire ! "
said Monsieur Majeste. And, awakened from his
stupor, he tries to shake the numbness out of his
legs, and descends quickly into the courtyard,
where the lackeys have just lighted a big, bright
fire. M. Majeste approaches and speaks to them.
The lackeys do not answer him, but continue to
talk in a whisper among themselves ; yet, as they-
talk, not the slightest vapor escapes from their lips
into the glacial darkness of the night. Monsieur
Majesty is not very well pleased, but one thing re-
assures him. That great fire which leaps straight
into the air to such a height is a most singular fire,
a flame without warmth, a fire which is bright, but
does not burn. His mind set at rest on that score,
the good man climbs the steps, and enters his store-
rooms.

These store-rooms on the ground-floor were in
former days magnificent reception-rooms. Bits of
tarnished gold still glitter at every corner. Myth-
ological figures circle about the ceiling, surround
the mirrors, float above the doors in vague tints
somewhat dimmed, like the memories of by-gone
years. Unfortunately there are no curtains, no
furniture left. Only baskets and big packing-cases
full of siphons with pewter heads ; behind the win-
dows the blackened, withered branches of an old
lilac tree rise. When M. Majesty enters, he finds
his store-room Hghted and full of people. He
salutes them, but no one pays the slightest atten-
tion to him. The women, each leaning on the arm
of her cavalier, continue to rustle their satin pel-

256 Monday Tales.

isses as they make little, mincing, ceremonious
gestures. They promenade, talk, and disperse.
Verily, all these ancient marquises seem to find
themselves quite at home. Before a painted pier-
glass one tiny apparition pauses, all of a tremble,
and whispers, '* To think that this is I ! — just look
at me ! " and she glances with a smile towards a
Diana who is seen in the wainscoting, slender, rose-
tinted, a crescent upon her forehead.

" Nesmond ! come here and look at your coat
of arms ! " and every one laughs to see the Nesmond
arms blazoned upon a packing-cloth, and the name
of Majeste underneath. " Ha, ha, ha ! — Majeste!
What ! have their Majesties still a corner in
France ? "

And endless gayety greets this discovery, tiny,
flute-like peals of laughter, fingers tossed in the air,
and fantastic grimaces.

Suddenly some one exclaims, —

** Champagne, champagne ! "

'' But — it cannot be."

'^ But — it is."

*' Yes, yes, it is champagne ! Come, Countess,
quick ! a Httle for the sake of Christmas-eve ! "

It is M. Majesty's seltzer-water they have mis-
taken for champagne. They find it slightly flat,
but — bah! they drink it just the same, and as
these poor little ghosts are somewhat light-headed,
by degrees that foaming seltzer animates, excites
them, and fills them with a longing to dance.
Minuets are formed.

Four fine violins Nesmond has summoned com-

Yule- Tide Stories. 257

mence an air of Rameau's, all in triolets; its quick,
short steps have a melancholy ring in spite of the
vivacity of the rhythm. It was delightful to see all
these charming old couples turn about slowly, sa-
luting each other to the measure of that solemn
music. The very garments of the dancers seemed
to renew their youth, even those golden waistcoats,
brocaded coats, and diamond-buckled shoes ; the
walls themselves seemed alive as they listened to
those ancient airs. The old mirror, confined in
the wall for two hundred years, scratched and black-
ened at the corners, recognized them also, and re-
flected the image of each dancer, — a reflection
slightly dimmed, as if with the tender emotion of a
regret. In the midst of all this elegance, M.
Majesty feels uneasy. He squats behind a pack-
ing-box, and watches them. By slow degrees day
arrives. Through the glass doors of the store-
room he sees the courtyard grow lighter ; then the
light begins to come through the top of the win-
dows, and at last one whole side of the room is
lighted. As the light grows brighter, the figures
fade, and become indistinct. After a while, M.
Majesty can see only two small violins lingering in
a corner, and as the daylight touches them, they,
too, vanish. In the courtyard he can still perceive,
but vaguely, the shape of a sedan-chair, a powdered
head sown with emeralds, and the last spark from
a torch which the lackeys have thrown on the pave-
ment, mingling with the sparks from the wheels of
a wagon which passes heavily through the portal,
rumbling as it enters.

17

258 Monday Tales.

II.

THE THREE LOW MASSES.
I.

" Two truffled turkeys, Garrigou ? "

*' Yes, reverend, two magnificent turkeys, stuffed
with truffles. I should know something about
them, for I myself helped to fill them. It seemed
as if their skin must crack in roasting, they were
so well-filled."

^^ Jhus- Maria ! How I love truffles. Quick,
Garrigou ! bring me my surpHce. And with the
turkeys, did you see aught else in the kitchen?"

" Oh, all sorts of good things. Since noon we
did nothing but pluck pheasants, hoopoes, pullets,
and grouse ; feathers were flying in every direction ;
then from the fish-pond were brought eels and
golden carp, trout and — "

" How large were those trout, Garrigou ? "

" As large as that, reverend father, enormous ! "

^' Dieu! methinks I see them at this moment.
Have you filled the flagons with wine?"

" Yes, rhjhend, I have filled them with wine, but
indeed it is no such wine as that you will drink
immediately the midnight mass is over. If you
could see all that is in the dining-hall of the castle,
the decanters flaming with wine of all colors, and the
silver plates, the carved epergnes, the flowers,

Yule-Tide Stories. 259

the candelabra ! Never again will the world see the
like ! Monsieur le Marquis has invited all the
lords of the neighborhood. There will be at least
forty of you at table, without counting either the
bailiff or the notary. Ah ! you are fortunate indeed
to be one of them, r^v^rend. I merely caught a
whiff of those fine turkeys, and the odor of the
truffles follows me everywhere. Meuh!**

" Come, come, my son. Let us beware of the
sin of gluttony, especially upon the, Eve of the
Nativity. Make haste to light the candles upon
the altar, and ring the first bell for mass ; for the
hour of midnight approaches, and we must not be
late."

This conversation took place in the Christmas-
season of the year of grace one thousand six hun-
dred — and it matters not how many years beside
— between the Reverend Dom Balaguere, ancient
prior of the Order of Barnabas, at that time chap-
lain of the Sires of Trinquelague, and his petty-
clerk, Garrigou, or to be more exact, him whom the
prior believed to be his clerk Garrigou ; for you will
see that the Evil One, on that evening, had assumed
the round face and undecided features of the young
sacristan, that he might the more easily lead the
reverend father into temptation and force him to
commit the frightful sin of gluttony. The self-styled
Garrigou {hum 1 hum !) began to ring the bells of
the seigniorial chapel with all his might ; the rever-
end father at last invested himself with his chasuble
in the small sacristy of the castle. But, his spirit
already somewhat disturbed by all those gastro-

26o Monday Tales,

nomic descriptions, he repeated to himself while
donning his vestments, —

" Roast turkeys, golden carps, and trouts as
big as that ! " Without, the night-wind blew, scat-
tering the music of the bells, and one after another,
lights began to appear along the sides of Mont
Ventoax, close to whose summit rose the ancient
towers of Trinquelague. The neighboring farmers
were going to micinight mass in the castle. They
chmbed the hill in groups of five and six, singing as
they went, the father leading, a lantern in his hands,
the women wrapped in their great brown cloaks,
in which their children too cuddled, and sought
shelter. In spite of the lateness of the hour and
the coldness of the night, all these good people
walked briskly, sustained by the one thought that
after mass was done there would be, as had always
been the yearly custom, a table spread for them in
the kitchens below. From time to time, upon the
rude ascent, some nobleman's carriage, preceded
by torch-bearers, was sighted, the glass gleaming
in the moonlight ; or a mule would be seen trotting
past, jingling its bells, and by the light of torches
enveloped in vapor, the farmers recognized their
bailiff, and saluted him as he passed by.

" Good-evening, good-evening. Master Arnoton."
** Good-evening, good-evening, my children."
The night was clear, the stars sparkled frostily,
the wind nipped keenly, and the fine sleet which
clung to garments without wetting them, preserved
former traditions of a Christmas white with snow.
Above, on the hill, loomed the castle, their visible

Yule- Tide Stories, 261

goal, an enormous pile, with towers and gables,
with the belfry of the chapel rising into the dark
blue sky, and a host of tiny lights flashing, moving
to and fro, waving at every window, and appearing
not unlike sparks from a charred mass of paper,
when seen against the sombre background of the
building. The drawbridge and the postern passed,
the chapel must be entered by crossing the outer
courtyard, full of coaches, lackeys, and sedan-chairs,
brightly lighted by the torch-fires and the blaze
from the kitchens ; various sounds were heard, the
jingling of spits as they turned, the clatter of
saucepans, the clinking of glasses, and silver moved
about in preparing the repast. There was wafted
upward a warm vapor which smelt so deliciously of
roast meat, of the savory herbs used for sauces
formed of various compounds, that the farmers, the
chaplain, the bailiff, and every one else observed :
" What a feast there will be after mass is over ! '*

II-

TiNG-A-LiNG ! Ting-a-ling-a-ling !

The midnight mass has begun. In the chapel
of the castle, a miniature cathedral, with its vaulted
roof and oaken wainscoting reaching to the ceiHng,
all the tapestries have been hung, all the tapers
lighted. And what an illustrious assemblage !
what toilets ! Chief and first of all, in the sculp-
tured stall which surrounds the chancel, sits the
Sire de Trinquelague, arrayed in salmon-colored

262 Monday Tales,

taffeta, and about him all the noble lords who are
his invited guests. Opposite, upon a velvet prie-
Dieu, the dowager marchioness takes her place,
robed in flame-colored brocade, and at her side the
youthful Lady of Trinquelague, with a high lace
head-dress, gauffered according to the latest fashion
at the French court. Farther down sat two men
clothed in black, with big pointed perruques and
smooth-shaven faces. These were the bailiff, mas-
ter Thomas Arnoton, and the petty-notary, master
Ambroy, two dark notes in that bright-hued har-
mony of silks and figured damask. Below them
sat fat major-domos, pages, huntsmen, stewards,
and Dame Barbe herself, all her keys hanging at
her side upon a fine silver ring. At the very end
of the chapel, upon the benches, sat the lower
servants and the farmers with their famihes ; and,
last of all, quite close to the door, which they
opened and closed discreetly, came the lords of
the kitchen, the scullions themselves, slipping out
between the making of two sauces to catch what
they could of the mass, bringing a whiff of the
supper into the church, which wore a festive air,
and was quite warm from the blaze of so many
tapers. Was it the sight of those little white caps
that so distracted the celebrant? More likely it was
that bell of Garrigou's, that mad Httle bell, which
tinkled at the foot of the altar with such infernal
speed, and seemed to say every second : ** We must
hasten, hasten ! The sooner we are through with
this, the sooner we shall be seated at table." For it
is a fact that every time that wicked little bell rang,

Yule- Tide Stories. 263

the chaplain forgot the mass and thought only of the
supper. He fancied he saw those bustling kitchens,
the fires burning like those of a forge, the warm
vapor rising when a pot-lid was uncovered, and in
that vapor two magnificent turkeys, stuffed, dis-
tended, and mottled with truffles. And he seemed
to see long rows of little pages pass, carrying big
platters from which arose a tempting steam, and
with them he entered the great hall prepared for
the feast. Oh, how delicious ! There stands an im-
mense table, gleaming with lights, laden with good
things, peacocks dressed with their feathers, pheas-
ants spreading their golden-brown wings, decanters
the color of rubies, pyramids of fruit, shining amid
green branches, and those marvellous fishes of
which Garrigou had made mention (ah! was it
Garrigou?) lying upon a bed of fennel, their scales
as pearly as if they had just come out of the water,
and a bunch of odorous herbs in the monsters'
nostrils. So vivid is the vision of these marvellous
things that it seems to Dom Balaguere as if all
those wonderful platters were placed before him
upon the embroidered altar-cloth ; and two or three
times instead of the Dominus Vobiscum he finds
himself almost repeating the Benedicite. Except
for these slight mistakes, the worthy man gets
through the service very conscientiously, without
skipping a line, or omitting a single genuflection;
all goes very well, and the end of the first mass is
reached, for you remember that on Christmas-eve
the same celebrant must say three consecutive
masses.

264 Monday Tales.

" One is finished," whispered the chaplain with
a sigh of relief, and then, without losing a moment
he motions to his clerk, the person he supposed to
be his clerk, and —

Ting-a-Hng ! Ling-a-ling-a-ling !

The second mass is beginning, and with it the
sin of Dom Balaguere. " Quick, quick, let us
hasten," cries Garrigou's bell, with its little shrill
voice ; and this time the wretched officiant, suc-
cumbing completely to the demon of gluttony,
plunges into his missal, and devours its pages with
all the avidity of his over-excited appetite. He
bows frenetically, rises again, hurriedly makes the
sign of the cross, the necessary genuflections, and
curtails all his gestures that he may finish the
sooner. He scarcely extends his arm when he
reaches the Gospel, nor beats his breast at the
Confiteor. There is a race between himself and
his clerk to see which one can go the fastest.
Verses and responses rush headlong, tumbling
over each other in their haste. Words are
half pronounced through closed lips to save
time, and nothing is heard save incomprehensible
murmurs : —

** Oremus ps . , , ps . . . ps . . . ''

'' Mea culpa . . . pa . . . pd . . . ''

Like vintagers hastily crushing the contents of
the vat, both of them plunge through the Latin of
the mass, splashing fragments of it in every di-
rection.

" Dom . . . scum! " says Balaguere.

" Stutuo I " Garrigou responds : and all the time

Yule- Tide Stories, 265

that accursed little bell is there, tinkling in their
ears like the little round bells hung about post-
horses to spur them to a gallop. You can easily
imagine that with that sound jingling in the
ears, a low mass is celebrated with all possible
expedition.

" Two ! " says the chaplain, panting, and without
taking time to regain his breath, red in the face
and dripping with perspiration, he tumbles over
the altar-steps, and — Ting-a-ling ! Ling-a-ling-
a-ling ! The third mass begins. It is only the
work of a few moments now, and then the dining-
hall ! But, alas ! as the moment of the feast ap-
proaches, the unfortunate Balagu^re is possessed
by a perfect frenzy of impatience and gluttonous
longing. The vision becomes more clearly de-
fined, the golden carps and roast turkeys seem to
be there, in that very spot ! He touches them, he
— oh ! Dieu ! the platters are steaming, the fra-
grance of the wines ascends, and that little bell
cries out as if mad, —

** Quicker, quicker, quicker ! "

But how is it possible to go more quickly? His
lips scarcely move. He no longer pronounces a
word. Unless he should cheat the good Lord com-
pletely and rob Him of His mass? — and that is
what the wretched man does. Yielding to one
temptation after another, he begins by omitting a
verse, then two more. The Epistle is too long, he
does not end it ; he merely skims the Gospel, omits
the Credo, skips the Pater Noster, salutes the Preface
at a distance, and with spasmodic jumps rushes

266 Monday Tales.

into eternal damnation, followed in each movement
by the infamous Garrigou {yade retro, Satanas) ;
the latter seconds his efforts with marvellous
understanding, relieves him of his chasuble, turns
over the leaves, two at a time, upsets the read-
ing-desk, overturns the flagons, and rings that
bell incessantly, ever more and more loudly and
rapidly.

The terror depicted on the faces of all that con-
gregation cannot be described ! Compelled to fol-
low the pantomime of the priest, in that mass of
which they understood not a word, some rose
whilst others knelt, some were seated whilst others
remained standing, and the various phases of this
singular celebration resulted, upon the benches, in
absolute confusion, in a multitude of diverse atti-
tudes. The Star of Bethlehem, in its course among
the paths of heaven, moving towards the lowly
manger, paled with fright as it beheld this shame-
ful sight.

"The abbe goes too fast. One cannot follow
him," murmurs the aged dowager, with a bewil-
dered shake of her head-dress. Master Arnoton,
his huge steel-rimmed spectacles astride his nose,
fumbles in his prayer-book, seeking to discover
where the deuce they are. But at heart all these
good people, who are also anticipating the mid-
night feast, are not at all sorry that the mass pro-
ceeds at such break-neck speed ; and when Dom
Balaguere turns with radiant face towards his flock,
crying with all his strength, '* lie, missa est,'' all
within the chapel answer, as with one voice, and

Yule- Tide Stories. 267

with a Deo gratias so overjoyed, so full of enthusi-
asm, that one might well believe himself seated
already at table, and responding to the first toast
of the Christmas-eve feast.

III.

Five minutes later that assemblage of noblemen
were seated in the great hall, the chaplain in their
midst. The castle, brilliantly lighted throughout,
re-echoed with songs, cries, laughter, and uproar ;
the venerable Dom Balaguere planted his fork in
the wing of a grouse, drowning remorse for his sin
in draughts of good vin du pape, and fine meat-
gravies. He ate and drank so much, this poor
holy man, that he died during the night, after a
terrible attack, and without having a single mo-
ment given him for repentance. When on the
morrow he arrived in heaven, which was still ringing
with rumors of the feasting of the preceding night,
I leave you to imagine what was his reception.

" Depart from my sight, thou faithless Christian,"
said the sovereign Judge and Master of us all, " for
thy sin is so great that it blots out the memory of
a whole life of virtue. Ah ! thou hast robbed me
of a midnight mass. Even so ! thou shalt atone
for this with three hundred masses in its stead, and
into Paradise thou shalt not enter till thou hast
celebrated within thine own chapel, and on Christ-
mas-eve, three hundred masses, which shall be in

268 Monday Tales,

the presence of all those who have sinned with
thee and because of thy sin."

And that is the true legend of Dom Balaguere as
it is told to this day in the land of olives. The
castle of Trinquelague exists no longer now, but
the chapel still rises erect as ever, by the summit
of Mont Ventoux, amid a thicket of green oaks.
The wind beats against its disjointed door, grass
grows upon the threshold, birds nest about its
altar and in the embrasures of its lofty windows
whose colored panes disappeared long ago. And
yet it seems that every year, as often as Christmas-
eve returns, an unearthly light wanders among
those ruins, and on their way to mass or to some
Christmas-eve merrymaking, the country-folk see
that spectral chapel illumined with invisible tapers,
which burn in the open air and cannot be quenched
even by the snow or the wind. You may smile at
this if you wish, but a vine-dresser of the neigh-
borhood, one Garrigue by name, and without
doubt a descendant of Garrigou, assured me that
one Christmas- eve, being a little light-headed after
the revel of the evening, he was lost upon the
mountain near Trinquelague, and this is what hap-
pened : up to one o'clock he saw nothing. All
was silent, wrapped in darkness, inanimate. Sud-
denly, towards midnight, bells began to chime
in the belfry above ; it was an old, old carillon,
that sounded as if ten leagues distant. Very
soon, upon the ascent of the road, Garrigue
saw torches flickering, waving to and fro, and
borne by indistinct shadowy forms. Beneath

Yule-Tide Stories^ 269

the chapel-porch footsteps were heard, and voices
whispered, —

" Good-evening, Master Arnoton."
" Good-ev^ening, good-evening, my children."
When all had entered, my vine-dresser, being
very brave, approached with soft steps, and beheld
through the broken door a singular spectacle.
All the forms he had seen pass were arranged
about the choir, in the ruined nave, as if the
ancient benches still existed. Fair ladies in bro-
cade, and lace-covered coifs, noble lords, embroi-
dered from head to foot, peasants in flowered coats
such as our grandsires wore were there, and all
looked old, faded, dust-stained, and weary. From
time to time night-birds, the habitual guests of the
chapel, awakened by all the lights, hovered about
these candles, whose flame ascended straight
towards heaven, but seemed indistinct as if seen
burning through a film; what amused Garrigue
vastly was a certain personage with great steel-
rimmed spectacles, who shook his high black
perruque from time to time, — one of those
birds clinging to it firmly, and flapping its wings
noiselessly.

In the farther end of the chapel was a little old
man, of infantile appearance, on his knees in the
midst of the choir and shaking desperately a little
mute, tongueless bell, while a priest, robed in faded
gold-cloth, went back and forth before the altar,
reciting orisons of which none heard a single word.
Surely this was Dom Balaguere, reciting his third
low mass.

270 Monday Tales.

THE POPE IS DEAD.

My childhood was passed in a large provincial
town which is bisected by a river crowded with
crafts, and full of stir and bustle ; there I acquired
while still young a fondness for voyages, and the
passion for a nautical life. There is one especial
corner of the quay, near a certain footbridge. Saint
Vincent, it is called, and I never think of it, even
to-day, without emotion. I remember that sign
nailed to the end of a yard, *' Cornety boats to let,''
the little staircase which went down even to
the water, slippery and black from frequent wet-
tings, the flotilla of little boats, freshly painted with
gay colors, standing in a row at the foot of the
ladder, rocking gently side by side, as if the
charming names which decorated the stern in white
letters, " The Humming-bird!' *' The Swallow^'
really lent the boats themselves new buoyancy.

Long oars glistening with white paint were dry-
ing against the wall, and among them walked Father
Cornet with his paint-pot and big paint-brushes ;
his face was tanned, furrowed, and wrinkled with in-
numerable tiny depressions, like the river itself
when an evening breeze springs up. Oh ! Father
Cornet ! That worthy man was the tempter of my
childhood, my joy and sorrow combined, my sin,

The Pope is Dead, 271

my remorse. How many crimes he led me to
commit with those boats of his ! I played truant
from school, I sold my books. What would I not
have sold for an afternoon's boating !

All my exercise-books at the bottom of the boat,
my jacket off, my hat pushed back, a delicious
breeze from the water fanning my hair, I pulled the
oars firmly, my brows knitted in a frown, trying to
cultivate the air of an old sea-dog. As long as I
was in the town I kept to the middle of the river, at
equal distance from either bank, where the old sea-
dog might have been recognized ! What a sense
of triumph I felt, mingling with the movement of
boats and rafts and floats loaded with wood, steam-
boats moving side by side, but never touching each
other, though separated merely by a slender strip
of foam ! And then there were heavier boats
which had to turn about to follow the current,
while a host of smaller ones were obliged to move
out of their way.

Suddenly the wheels of a steamboat would be-
gin to churn the water around me ; a huge shadow
would loom above me ; it was the bow of a boat
loaded with apples. ** Look out, youngster," a
hoarse voice shouted ; dripping with perspiration
I tugged away, entangled in that current of life
upon the river which mingled incessantly with
the life of the street at every bridge and foot-
bridge, while reflections from passing omnibuses
darkened the water as I pulled my oars.

The current of the river was very strong about
the arches of the bridge, and there were such

272 Monday Tales,

eddies, such whirlpools, among them that famous
one to which the name of ''Death the Deceiver'"
had been given. You can understand that it was
no light matter for a child to pilot himself through
that part of the river, pulling with the arms of a
twelve-year-old, and no one to hold the rudder.

Sometimes I chanced to encounter the chain.
As quickly as possible I would catch on to the end
of the line of boats as it was tugged along, and
letting my oars lie motionless, spread like wings
about to alight, I allowed myself to be borne on-
ward by that swift, silent movement which broke
the river's surface into long ribbons of foam, while
the trees along the bank and the houses upon the
quay glided by us. A long, long distance ahead
I could hear the monotonous turning of the screw,
and on one of the boats, where a tiny thread of
smoke was rising from a low chimney, I could
hear a dog's bark ; at such times I really fancied
that I was aboard ship, and off for a long cruise.

Unfortunately, those meetings with that line of
boats were rare. Most of the time I rowed and
rowed, through the hours when the sun was hottest.
Oh, that noonday sun beating straight down upon
the river ; I can still seem to feel it burning me !
Everything glistened beneath those fiery rays. In
that dazzling, sonorous atmosphere, which rested,
a floating mass, above the waves vibrating with
their every movement, with every dip of my oars,
and from the fisherman's lines raised, dripping,
from the water, I could see vivid gleams, as from
some surface of polished silver. Then I would

The Pope is Dead, 273

close my eyes while I rowed on. From the energy
of my efforts and the bound of the waves beneath
my boat, I thought for the moment that I must be
moving very rapidly, but upon raising my head to
look, I was sure to see the same tree, the same wall
facing me from the river-bank.

At last, completely exhausted, covered with
perspiration, crimson with heat, I succeeded in"
leaving the city behind me. The din that came
from bath-houses, washerwomen's boats, and boat-
landings, grew fainter; the bridges were farther
apart upon the widening river. A few suburban
gardens and a factory chimney were reflected
here and there. On the horizon the fringe of
verdant islands fluttered, and now, unable to go
any farther, I would pull close to the bank ; there,
in the midst of the reeds, full of buzzing life, over-
come with the sun, fatigue, and that oppressive
heat which rose from the water dotted with great
yellow flowers, the old sea-dog would have an at-
'tack of the nose-bleed, which lasted for hours.
My voyages always ended with that catastrophe ;
but then — one must not ask too much ! De-
lightful enough these excursions were to me.

But the terrible part was the return, the moment
when I must enter the house. No matter how fast
I pulled the oars as I rowed homeward, I always
arrived too late, and long after school was out.
Impressed with the decline of day, the sight of the
first few gaslights twinkling through the mist, the
Soldiers' Retreat, my apprehension and remorse
grew ever greater as I neared home. I envied the

18

274 Monday Tales,

people I met, tranquilly turning homeward. My
head dull and heavy, full of the effects of sun and
water, a murmur of sea-shells in my ears, I ran on,
my face already reddening with the lie I was about
to tell.

For on each occasion it was necessary to con-
front that terrible " Where were you ? " which
awaited me upon the threshold. It was that ques-
tion which terrified me most, upon my home-com-
ing. Standing upon the stairs I must answer upon
the spur of the moment, and always have a story
ready, something to say so astounding, so over-
whelming, that surprise must cut short all further
questioning. This left me time to enter, to regain
breath. And for the sake of that moment I
counted no cost too dear. I invented sinister
events, revolutions, terrible things ; one whole side
of the city was burning, the railway bridge had
collapsed, and fallen into the river ! But the most
startling of all my inventions was the following :

That evening I reached home very late. My
mother, who had awaited me a whole hour, was on
the watch, standing at the head of the stairway.

" Where have you been? " she exclaimed.

Tell me who can from what source children ob-
tain the impish ideas that enter their heads. I had
prepared no excuse, discovered none, — for I had
returned too quickly. Suddenly a wild thought
occurred to me. I knew that dear mother was
very pious, most zealous of Roman CathoHcs, and
I answered her with the breathless haste born of a
deep emotion, —

The Pope is Dead, 275

" Oh, mamma ! If you knew ! "

" Knew what? Has anything happened ? "

" The pope is dead."

" The pope is dead ! " repeated my poor mother,
and very pale she leaned against the wall.

I passed quickly into my own room, somewhat
frightened at my success, and the enormity of the
lie ; and yet I had the courage to persist in it to
the end. I still remember that subdued funereal
evening ; my father looked very grave, my mother
was prostrated. They talked around the table in
low voices. I kept my eyes lowered all the while ;
but my escapade had been so completely forgotten
in the general sorrow that no one thought further
of it.

Each one was pleased to call to mind some virtu-
ous trait of that poor Pius IX. ; then, by degrees,
the conversation wandered, and reverted to Papal
History. Aunt Rose began to speak of Pius VII.,
whom she recalled very well, having seen him when
he passed through the Midi, in the back of a post-
chaise, between gendarmes. They recalled that
famous scene with the Emperor: Com^diante ! . . .
tragMiante ! . . . For the hundredth time I heard
them describe that terrible scene, ever with the same
intonations, the same gestures, with all those stereo-
typed expressions which are a part of family tra-
dition, as such bequeathed to the next generation,
remaining with it, and like some monastic history,
preserving all their puerilities and localisms.

Notwithstanding, the incident never appeared to
me more interesting than upon this occasion.

276 Monday Tales,

With hypocritical sighs, with questionings, and
an assumption of interest, I listened to every word,
but all the time I was thinking to myself, —

" To-morrow morning, when they learn the pope
is not dead, they will be so glad that no one will
have the heart to scold me."

And as I thought of that, my eyes closed in
spite of my efforts to keep them open, and visions
of tiny boats, painted blue, appeared, and every
nook along the Saone drowsing beneath the heat,
and argyro7iHes darting forth their long feet in
every direction, cutting the glassy water like
diamond-points.

Gastronomic Scenes, 277

GASTRONOMIC SCENES.

BOUILLABAISSE.

We were sailing along the Sardinian coast
towards La Madeleine Island. It was an early-
morning excursion. Our oarsmen pulled slowly;
leaning over the side of our boat, I looked at the
sea, transparent as some spring, the sunlight diving
to the very bottom. Medusae and starfish sprawled
among the seaweed. Big lobsters lay motionless,
their long claws buried in the fine sand. All these
might be seen at a depth of from eighteen to twenty
feet, in a sort of aquarium, clear as crystal. At
the bow of the boat a fisherman, standing with a
long cleft reed in his hand, made a sign to the oars-
men, " Softly, softly ! " and suddenly between the
points of his fork he held a beautiful lobster sus-
pended, spreading out its claws with a terrified
movement, though still asleep. At my side another
sailor let his line drop upon the water's surface in
the wake of the boat, and brought in a haul of
marvellous little fishes, which as they died were
colored with a thousand bright and changing tints
— a death-agony beheld through a prism.

The fishing ended, we landed among the high,
gray rocks. A fire was quickly kindled, which

2jS Monday Tales,

burned with a pale light in the bright sunshine;
bread cut in big slices was placed upon small plates
of red earthen-ware, and we sat about the soup-
kettle, plates held out and nostrils distended.
Was it because of the landscape, the sunshine, or
that horizon of sea and sky? I have never eaten
anything that tasted better than that lobster bouilla-
baisse. And afterwards that delightful siesta upon
the sand, — a slumber filled with the lulling mur-
murs of the sea, while the wavelets, as if covered
with innumerable shining scales, flash and glitter,
even although the eyes are closed.

AIOLI.

One might have almost believed it to be the hut
of some fisherman of Theocritus on the Sicilian
coast ; but the scene was merely in Provence, on
the island of Camargue, the home of a river-keeper.
A reed cabin, nets hanging upon the walls, guns,
oars, apparently the tackle of a trapper, of one who
hunts both on land and sea.

Before the open door, against which appeared a
level landscape that seemed even vaster when the
gale swept across it, the wife of the river-keeper
was skinning some fine eels, which were still alive.
The fish wriggled in the sunlight, and yonder, in
the wan light of the squall, slender trees were
bending like fugitives before the storm, the white
surfaces of their leaves exposed. Bits of marsh,

Gastronomic Scenes, 279-

gleaming here and there among the reeds, looked
like fragments of a broken mirror. Farther away
a long and shining line bounded the horizon. It
was the Lake of Vaccares.

Within the hut, a fire of twigs was burning
brightly and crackling loudly; the keeper was
religiously pounding cloves of garlic in a mortar,
and adding olive-oil drop by drop. Later we ate
aioli upon our eels, seated on high stools before a
small wooden table, in that snug little cabin where
the largest space of all was reserved for the ladder
which climbed to the loft ; and one felt that beyond
and about that tiny room lay the horizon swept by
the gale, and hurrying flocks of wandering birds, —
that all the encircling space might be measured by
the bells of herds, of horses and cattle, their ring-
ing at first loud and sonorous, and then sounding
more faintly in the distance, till the last notes were
lost, borne away in a gust of the mistral.

COUSCOUS.

It was in Algeria; we were visiting an aga of
the plain of Chelif ; in the great magnificent tent
pitched for us before the aga's house we watched
the night descend, clad in hues of half-mourning,
dark violet at first, which deepened into the purple
of a magnificent sunset; through the freshness
of the evening a Kabyle candlestick of palm-
wood was lighted in the centre of the half-open

28o Monday Tales.

tent, and the motionless flame from its branches
attracted night insects, who hovered about it with a
rusthng of timid wings. Squatted upon mats we
ate in silence ; whole sheep, all dripping in butter,
were brought in at the end of poles, honeyed pastry
and perfumed confections followed, and, last of all,
a great wooden platter, upon which were chickens
in the golden semolina of couscous.

Meanwhile night had fallen. Over the neighbor-
ing hills the moon was rising, a tiny Oriental cres-
cent, near which a solitary star nestled. Out of
doors a big bonfire was flaming in front of the tent,
surrounded by dancers and musicians. I recall a
gigantic negro, quite naked but for the ancient
tunic of the hght regiment; he jumped about,
causing long shadows to dart all over the tent.
This cannibal dance, those small Arabian drums,
rattling breathlessly when the beat was hastened,
the sharp barking of jackals responding from every
side of the plain, — all these things made the ob-
server feel that he was in a savage country. How-
ever, in the interior of the tent, that refuge of these
nomadic tribes, which resembles a motionless sail
upon a waveless sea, the aga in his white woollen
burnouses, seemed to me an apparition of primi-
tive times, and as he gravely swallowed his cous-
cous, I was wondering whether this national
Arabian dish were not indeed that miraculous
manna of the Hebrews of which so much is written
in the Bible.

Gastronomic Scenes. 281

POLENTA.

The Corsican coast, an evening in November.
We landed beneath torrents of rain, in a part of
the country which was completely deserted. Some
charcoal-burners of Lucca made room for us at
their fire. Then a native shepherd, a species of
savage, clad entirely in goatskins, invited us to
^2!^ polenta in his hut. We entered, stooping and
making ourselves as small as possible, a hovel
where it was impossible to stand upright. In the
centre some bits of green wood are kindling, be-
tween four blackened stones. The smoke which
escapes from this fire mounts towards a hole cut in
the top of the hut; then it spreads everywhere,
driven about by the wind and rain. A tiny lamp,
the caleil of Provence, blinks timidly in this stifling
atmosphere. A woman and children appear from
time to time, when the smoke clears a little, and
hidden away somewhere a pig is heard grunting.
Some rubbish left from a shipwreck is seen, a
bench made of bits of vessels, a wooden packing-
case with lettering upon it, the painted wooden
head of a mermaid torn from some prow, the paint
washed away by the sea-water.

Polenta is frightful stuff. The badly crushed
chestnuts have a mouldy taste ; it would seem that
they had remained too long under the trees dur-
ing heavy rains. The national bruccio followed the
polentay with a wild taste reminding one of vagrant

282 Monday Tales,

goats. In this spot the very climax of Italian pov-
erty is seen. Neither house nor home. The cli-
mate is so favorable, a livelihood so easily gained !
Nothing more is needed than a retreat for rainy-
weather days. And what does it matter that the
place is smoky, that the lamp burns dimly, when a
house is regarded merely as a prison, and the
only life that seems life at all is lived in the open
sunshine ?

A Seaside Harvest, 283

A SEA-SIDE HARVEST.

We had been travelling across the plain since
morning in quest of the sea, which constantly
eluded us, in those winding paths, headlands, and
peninsulas which form the coast of Britanny.

From time to time a bit of marine blue would
appear on the horizon, like a patch of sky, though
deeper in tint and less stable ; but advancing along
the capricious meanderings of those roads, which
made one call up a picture of ambuscades and
Chouan warfare, the momentary glimpse of the sea
was soon shut out again. At length we arrived at
a tiny village, rustic and ancient in appearance,
with gloomy streets as narrow as if built in Alge-
rian fashion, and full of dung, geese, cattle, and
swine. The houses resembled huts, with their low
arched doorways, encircled with white and marked
with lime crosses ; the shutters were firmly fast-
ened by long transverse bars, a custom seen only
in windswept countries. And yet this little Breton
town looked sheltered enough ; the air was still,
and even stifling. One might have believed him-
self twenty leagues inland. But suddenly, as we
came upon the square in front of the church, we
found ourselves enveloped in a dazzling light, felt

284 Monday Tales,

a tremendous sweep of air, and in our ears was the
sound of illimitable waves. The ocean spread be-
fore us, the immense, infinite ocean, with its salt,
fresh scent, and that strong breeze which rises
from each bounding wave as the tide comes in.
The village rose before us, nestling along the edge
of the quay, the main street continued by the
jetty, till it reached a tiny port where fishing-boats
were moored. Close to the waves the belfry of.
the church rises like a sentinel, and around it,
at the very extremity of this bit of the world, is
the cemetery with its crosses leaning forward, its
wild waste-grass, and its low, crumbling wall,
against which stone benches are placed.

It would be difficult to find a more delightful or
secluded place than this little village hidden away
in the midst of the rocks, and interesting both as a
pastoral and a bit of marine landscape. All of them
fishers or laborers, the people of the neighborhood
have a rude, scarcely prepossessing exterior. They
do not invite you to be their guest, quite the con-
trary. But by degrees they yield to humanizing
influences, and you are surprised to find, in spite of
their rough welcome, that these people are simple-
hearted and kindly. They resemble their land,
that stubborn and rocky soil, so mineral that the
roads even, when exposed to the sun, have a black-
ish hue, spangled with glittering particles of cop-
per or of tin. This rocky soil along the coast, bare
and exposed, looks wild, austere, and bristling.
There are places where it has fallen down and
caved in; there are perpendicular cliffs, grottos

A Sea-side Harvest, 285

hollowed out by the waves, which rush in engulfing
them with a roar of waters. When the tide has
gone out the rocks appear again, as far as the eye
can see their monstrous backs emerging from the
waves, glistening and white with foam, like gigantic
cachalots run aground.

Only a few steps away from the water's edge>
the scene affords a singular contrast; fields of
wheat and lucerne, and vineyards extend, inter-
secting each other, separated by little walls as
high as hedgerows, and green with brambles.
The eye wearied even to dizziness at sight of those
tall cliffs, those foaming breakers, those chasms
into which one must descend with ropes fastened
to the rocks, can find rest in the midst of the
unbroken surface of the plain, and the friendlier,
more familiar aspects of nature. The least detail
of the rural scene is heightened when seen against
the gray-green background of the sea, which pre-
sents itself at every turn of the road, and appears
between the houses, through each cranny of a
wall, and at the foot of the street. Even the
crowing of the cock sounds clearer when sur-
rounded by so much space. But what is most
beautiful of all is the harvest-gathering at the sea-
side, the golden stacks piled up so close to the
blue waves, the threshing-floors where the rhyth-
mic beat of the flail is heard, those groups of
women on the steep rocks, seeking which way the
wind blows, and winnowing the wheat between
their outstretched hands with gestures of evoca-
tion. The grains rain down with a regular, brisk

286 Monday Tales.

movement, while the sea-breeze carries away the
chafif and sets it whirling. This winnowing goes
on upon the square in front of the church, upon
the quay, as far as the jetty itself, where great
fish-nets are spread out to dry, their meshes all
entangled with aquatic plants.

Meanwhile there is another harvest at the foot of
the rocks, in that neutral space invaded each day,
and then left bare, by the tide. Here the seaweed
is gathered. Each wave, as it breaks in foam upon
the shore, leaves its traces in an undulating line of
that marine vegetation known as goemon or varech.
When the wind blows, these algae are carried the
entire length of the beach with a rustling sound,
and as far as the ebb of the sea leaves the rocks
uncovered, these long, wet masses of sea-foliage
are deposited everywhere. They are gathered
into great heaps along the coast and piled up in
dark-purplish stacks, which preserve all the hues
of the waves, and the bizarre iris-tints of dead
fishes and faded vegetation. When the stack is
dry it is burned, and the soda is extracted from it.

This singular harvest is gathered by the bare-
legged villagers at low tide among the innumer-
able limpid little pools which the ebbing waters
leave behind; men, women, and children appear
among the slippery rocks, armed with immense
rakes. As they pass, terrified crabs attempt to
escape, crawl into hiding-places, spreading out
their claws, and shrimps with transparent bodies
can scarcely be distinguished from the ruffled
water. After the seaweed is obtained, it is gath-

A Seaside Harvest, 287

ered into piles and loaded upon wagons to which
yoked oxen are harnessed ; they cross the hilly
and broken ground laboriously, with heads bent.
Wherever the eye chances to glance, these wagons
are seen ; sometimes in spots that seem almost
inaccessible, which are reached only by abrupt
paths, a man will appear leading by the bridle a
horse loaded with drooping, dripping vegetation.
You will also see children carrying upon sticks,
crossed to form a handbarrow, their gleanings from
this marine harvest.

All this forms a melancholy but fascinating
picture. Terrified sea-gulls are seen circling about
their eggs, and screaming. The menace of the sea
is here, and what adds a final touch of solemnity to
the scene is the silence which broods about every-
thing, the same silence that marks a gleaning of the
fruits of the soil, the silence of activity, full of the
efforts of a people struggling against rebellious and
parsimonious nature. A call to the cattle, a sharp
" t-r-r-r " echoing through the grottos, is the only
sound that is heard. The spectator seems to have
encountered some Trappist community, one of those
monastic brotherhoods which labor in the open air
with a vow of everlasting silence imposed upon them.
Those who are directing the work never look
about, even to so much as glance at you when you
pass; the cattle alone fix their great, placid eyes
upon you. And yet this is not a sad people, and
when the Sabbath comes they know how to make
merry, and dance their old Breton dances. Of an
evening, towards eight o'clock, they assemble at

288 Monday Tales,

the end of the quay, before the church and the
cemetery. That word *' cemetery " has a dismal
sound, but the spot itself, if you should see it,
looks anything but dismal. Not a boxwood-tree,
nor a single yew, nor monuments of marble ; noth-
ing here is formal or solemn. Only crosses are
seen, the same names repeated again and again
as in all small settlements where the inhabitants
are closel}^ allied. The tall grass grows every-
where with equal favor, and the walls are so low
that the children can climb over them in their
play, and upon the day of an interment the spec-
tator from without can see the kneeling mourners
within.

At the foot of those low walls the aged come to
sit in the sun, spinning or dozing, upon one side
of them that wild and silent enclosure, in front of
them the eternal and restless sea.

And there, too, the young gather to dance of a
Sabbath evening. When the light gleams faintly
above the waves along the jetty, groups of youths
and maids approach. Rings are formed, and a
shrill voice rises, at first alone, repeating a line
whose rhythm is easily caught, and summoning the
chorus : —

" C'est dans la cour du Plat-d'£tain." (

All the voices repeat together, —

" C'est dans la cour du Plat-d'Etain."

The roundel grows livelier, one catches glimpses
of white caps, their flaps whirling about Hke butter-

A Sea-side Harvest, 289

flies' wings. Almost invariably the wind snatches
and bears off half of the words, —

". . . perdu mon serviteur . . .
. . . portera mes couleurs ..."

the song all the more naive and charming, be-
cause one catches only fragments of it, with those
odd elisions so common in folk-songs set to dance-
tunes with more regard for the rhythm of the meas-
ure than thought for the meaning of the words.
With no other light than the feeble ray of the
moon, the dance seems fantastic. All is gray,
black, or white, in that neutrality of tint which ac-
companies things dreamed about, not seen. By
degrees, as the moon rises, the crosses in the
cemetery, especially that of High Calvary, which
is at one side, lengthen till they seem to touch
the ring of dancers and mingle with them. At
last ten o'clock rings. The dancers separate.
Each returns homeward, along the lanes of the
little village, which wears a strange aspect at this
moment, with its broken steps of outer staircases,
roof corners, and a confused mass of bent, tumble-
down, open sheds, black with the dense gloom
of night.

We pass along old walks, just grazed by fig
trees, and, as we walk on, crushing underfoot the
empty chaff from the winnowed wheat, the scent
of the sea comes to us, mingling with the warm
perfume of the harvest, and the breath of cattle
asleep in the stables.

The house where we are living is in the country,
19

290 Monday Tales,

a short distance from the village. As we return,
we can see along the road, just above the hedges,
beacons gleaming from all parts of the peninsula, a
flash-light, a revolving, a stationary one ; and as we
cannot now see the ocean, all these watch-towers
rising above yonder black reefs seem lost in this
peaceful country.

Emotions of a Young Red Partridge, 291

THE EMOTIONS OF A YOUNG RED
PARTRIDGE.

You know that partridges travel in flocks, and
make their nests together in the hollows of the
fields, so that they may be able to disappear at the
least alarm, an entire flock dispersing like a hand-
ful of wheat scattered by the sower. Our own
covey is large in numbers, and merry ; our home
is upon the plain on the border of a great forest,
well sheltered on two sides, and full of booty. Ever
since I knew how to run, being well fed and full-
fledged, my life was a very happy one. But one
thing disturbed me somewhat, and that was the
famous beginning of the chase ; our parents began
to talk of it among themselves, in whispers; a
veteran of our company would tell me on such
occasions, —

" Do not fear, Rouget," — I was named Rouget
because of my bill, and my legs the color of the
red berries of the rowan, — " do not fear, Rouget.
I will take you with me the day the hunt begins,
and I am sure no ill will befall you." He was an
old fellow, very sly, and still nimble, although he
had the horseshoe already marked upon his breast,
and a few white feathers here and there. When he
was young he received a grain of lead in one wing,

292 Monday Tales,

making it rather heavy, and he looks about him
more than once before flying, takes his time about
it, and gets out of harm's way. He had often led
me as far as the entrance of the woods, where
there stands an odd little house, nestling close to
chestnut-trees, silent as an empty burrow, and
always closed.

** Look well at that house, little one," said the
old fellow one day ; '' when you see smoke rising
from the roof, when the shutters and the door are
opened, it bodes ill for us."

I placed myself completely in his charge, know-
ing that this was not the first hunting-season for
him.

And, in fact, the very next morning, at break of
day, I heard some one caUing very softly amid the
furrows, —

" Rouget, Rouget ! "

It was the old fellow himself. His eyes had an
extraordinary expression.

" Come quickly," he said, " and do exactly as I
do."

I followed him, still half asleep, gliding along
the clumps of turf, not flying and scarcely hop-
ping, but creeping like a mouse. We reached the
border of the woods, and in passing I saw smoke
ascending from the chimney of the Httle house ;
the windows were no longer closed, the door stood
wide open, and before it were huntsmen, thoroughly
equipped for the chase, and surrounded by dogs
bounding about them. As we passed, one of these
huntsmen exclaimed, —

Emotions of a Young Red Partridge, 293

" We will scour the plain this morning, and leave
the woods until after dinner."

Then I understood why my old comrade had
first of all sought a spot where we would be shel-
tered. Nevertheless, my heart was jumping quickly,
especially when I thought of our poor friends.

Suddenly, just as we passed the outskirts of the
woods, the dogs began to gallop in our direction.

** Keep close to the ground, close to the ground,"
said my old comrade, dropping to the earth ; and
at the same moment, ten paces from us a terrified
quail spread out his wings, opened wide his beak,
and flew, uttering a frightened cry. I heard a for-
midable sound, and we were enveloped in dust
which had a strange odor, and was white and warm
although the sun had scarcely risen. I was so
frightened that I was no longer able to run. For-
tunately, we had entered the woods. My comrade
hid behind a small oak, and I took my position
near him, and there we remained in hiding, peep-
ing through the leaves.

In the fields there was a terrific firing. At every
shot I closed my eyes, quite dazed ; when at last
I resolved to open them, I saw before me the plain,
vast and bare ; dogs were running about, prying
in the grass, among the sheaves, running about as
if mad. Behind them came the hunters, cursing
and shouting. Their guns flashed in the sunlight.
One moment, in a tiny cloud of smoke, I fancied I
could see, although there was not a single tree in
the neighborhood, something flying that looked
like scattered leaves. But the old cock assured me

294 Monday Tales,

that what I saw was feathers, and in fact, a hun-
dred feet in front of us we saw a superb young
gray partridge fall in the furrows, his bleeding
head upturned. When the sun was high and the
heat intense, the firing suddenly paused. The
huntsmen returned towards the Httle house, where
a fine fire of twigs was soon burning. They
talked among themselves, guns slung across their
shoulders, arguing about their shots, while the
dogs followed close at their heels, exhausted, their
tongues hanging.

" They are going to dine," said my companion ;
** let us do the same."

And we entered a field of buckwheat which is
close to the woods, a big field dark in places, white
in others, partly in flower, partly gone to seed, and
scented like almond. Beautiful pheasants with
reddish-brown plumage were pecking there as well
as ourselves, dropping their red crests lest they
should be seen. Ah ! they were not so vahant as
of old. As they ate they asked us for news, and
wished to learn whether any of their kin had fallen.
Meanwhile the meal of the sportsmen, at first silent,
became more and more boisterous ; we could hear
glasses clinking and the corks of bottles flying.
My old comrade thought it was time to seek our
covert again.

At this hour the forest seemed as if asleep.
The Httle pool where the roebucks come to drink
was not troubled by a single tongue lapping the
water. Not even the snout of a rabbit in the wild
thyme of the warren. Only a mysterious shudder

Emotions of a Yoimg Red Partridge, 295

was felt, as if every leaf, every grass-blade, shel-
tered an existence that was endangered. These
hunted ones of the forest have so many hiding-
places in burrows, thickets, fagots, and brushwood ;
and then there are those ditches, those tiny ditches
in the woods, that hold the water so long after a
rain. I confess that I would gladly have sought
one of those holes, but my companion preferred
not to remain in hiding, but to have the country
before him, able to look far and wide in the open
air. It was lucky for us, for soon the huntsmen
arrived in the woods.

Oh ! that first shot in the forest, that fire which
pierced the leaves like an April hail-storm, denting
the bark of the trees. Never shall I forget it. A
rabbit scampered across the road, tearing off tufts
of grass with his paws. A squirrel tumbled down
a chestnut tree, the still green chestnuts tumbling
with him. The heavy flight of some big pheasants
was heard, and a tumult ensued in the low branches,
among the dry leaves, at the shock of this fire,
which startled, awoke, and frightened every living
thing in the woods. Field-mice ran out of their
holes. A stag-beetle crawled from a crevice in the
tree where we were crouching, and rolled his big
stupid eyes, fixed with terror. Blue dragon-flies,
humble-bees, butterflies, tiny creatures of all sorts
fled terrified in every direction. A little cricket
with scarlet wings even went so far as to crawl close
to my beak, but I was too frightened myself to take
advantage of its terror.

But my old comrade remained calm. Constantly

296 Monday Tales,

attentive to the firing and the barking of the dogs,
when they came nearer he would signal to me,
and we would withdraw a little, beyond reach of
the dogs and well-hidden in the foliage. And yet,
on one occasion I really believed that we were
lost. The passage we must cross was guarded at
every step by a hunter lying in wait. On one side
stood a big, detei^mined, black-whiskered fellow,
whose every movement set a mass of old iron ring-
ing; he was armed with a hunting-knife, cartridge-
pouch, powder-box, and with high-buttoned gaiters
reaching to his knees, making him look even taller ;
on the other side a little old man leaning against
a tree, tranquilly smoking a pipe, blinking his
eyes as if he wished to doze. He did not frighten
me in the least ; it was the big fellow who terrified
me.

"You know nothing at all, Rouget," said my
comrade, with a smile ; and advancing fearlessly with
outspread wings, he flew past, almost touching the
legs of the terrible black-whiskered huntsman.

And the fact is, the poor man was so encum-
bered with his hunting-rig, so absorbed in admiring
himself from top to toe, that when he aimed his
gun, we were already beyond his range. Ah ! if
the huntsman only knew, when he thinks himself
alone in a corner of the woods, how many tiny,
fixed eyes are watching from every bush, how
many tiny, pointed bills are trying to hold in their
laughter at his awkwardness !

We went on and on. Having nothing better to
do than to follow my comrade, my wings fluttered

Emotions of a Young Red Partridge, 297

to every motion of his own, and folded silently
when he alighted. I can still see every place we
passed — the warren, pink with heath, full of bur-
rows at the foot of the yellow trees, and then that
great curtain of oaks where I seemed to see death
concealed everywhere, the little green lane where
Mother Partridge had so often walked with her tiny
brood in the May sunshine, where we hopped
about, pecking at the red ants that clambered up
our legs, and where we met snobbish little pheas-
ants, dull as chickens, who would not play with us.

I see, as if in a dream, that little lane at the
moment a roe would cross it, erect upon her slender
legs, her eyes wide open, her body ready to spring.
And then there was that pool we visited in parties
of fifteen to thirty, all of the same flock, passing
across the plain in a minute to drink the water of
the spring and splash its droplets which rolled
down our lustrous plumage. In the midst of this
pond there was a clump of young alders, that
formed quite a thicket, and upon that little island
we took refuge. The dogs must have had a keen
scent to have come there in search of us. We had
been there a moment when a roebuck arrived
dragging three legs along, and leaving a red track
upon the moss behind him. It was such a sad
sight that I hid my head beneath the leaves ; but
I could hear the wounded animal drinking in the
pool, panting and consumed with fever.

The sun was setting. The firing sounded at a
distance now, the shots few and far between. At
length there was silence. The day's hunt was over.

298 Monday Tales.

Then we returned very softly across the plain for
news of our covey. As we passed by the little
wooden house, I saw a horrible sight.

On the edge of a ditch, russet-coated hares and
little, gray, white-tailed rabbits were lying side by
side. Their tiny paws, bent together in death,
seemed to beg for mercy; their dim eyes seemed
about to weep ; we saw red partridges also, and
gray ones, who had a horseshoe marked upon their
breasts, like my comrade, and young ones of this
year's brood, who like myself still had down upon
their wings. Do you know any sadder sight in the
world than a dead bird? What seems more alive
than the wings of a bird? But to see them folded
and cold causes one to shudder. There was also
a huge roebuck lying there ; it was a magnificent
animal, and lay there quietly, as if it had fallen
asleep, its little red tongue outstretched as if about
to lick.

The huntsmen too were there, leaning over all this
slaughtered booty, counting and drawing towards
their game-bags broken wings and bleeding legs,
with no respect for those wounds, still fresh. The
dogs, tied-up to go back, were scowling and point-
ing, as if ready to spring again into the thicket.

Oh ! while that great sun was sinking yonder,
as they went off wearily, casting long shadows upon
the clods and the paths wet with the evening-dews,
how I cursed, how I hated them, men and brutes,
that entire band. Neither my companion nor my-
self had the heart for piping our usual farewell
note to the departing day.

Emotions of a Young Red Partridge. 299

Upon our way we came across more unfortunate
little beasts, slain by a chance bullet, and lying
there, abandoned to ants and field-mice, their
muzzles full of dust ; we saw magpies and swallows,
suddenly struck in their flight ; they lay head up,
upon the ground, and their little claws curled stiffly
upward, while the night descended swiftly, — an
autumn night, clear, cold, and damp. And more
heart-rending than aught else were the cries which
rose from the outskirts of the woods, from deep
in the meadow, from the willows fringing the river,
calls that were uttered far and wide, sad anxious
cries which no call answered.

300 Monday Tales,

THE MIRROR.

In the North, on the bank of the Niemen, ap-
peared one day a little creole, fifteen years of age,
pink and white as the blossoms of the almond tree.
She had come from the land of humming-birds,
and a breath of love wafted her hither. True, the
people of her island had said to her, " Do not go.
It is cold on the continent. When winter comes
it will kill you." But the little creole did not be-
lieve there was such a thing as winter, and she did
not know what cold was except as she had tasted
it in sherbets ; besides, she was in love, and had no
fear of death. And so it happened that she landed
northward, among the fogs of the Niemen, with
her fans, her hammock, mosquito-nettings, and a
gilded, latticed cage, filled with the birds of her
country.

When old Father North saw this island-flower
the South had sent him in a sunbeam, his heart
stirred within him for pity ; and as he thought that
the cold would make but a single mouthful of the
maiden and her humming-birds, he quickly lighted
his great yellow sun, and disguised himself in sum-
mer's garment to receive the strangers. And so
the Creole was deceived, and she mistook this

The Mirror, 301

northern heat, so harsh and oppressive, for constant
warmth, and its dark evergreen for the verdure of
spring-time, and hanging her hammock in the park
between two fir trees she swung and fanned herself
all day long.

" It is very warm in the North," she said with a
smile. But one thing troubled her. Why in this,
strange country have the houses no verandas?
Why those thick walls, those carpets and heavy
hangings? Those great porcelain stoves, and huge
piles of wood heaped up in the yards, those blue
fox-skins, lined cloaks, and furs laid away at the bot-
tom of wardrobes, — what are all these things for ?
Poor child, she will soon learn.

One morning, on awaking, the little Creole feels
a sudden chill pass through her. The sun has dis-
appeared, and from the darkened overhanging sky,
which seems to have descended upon the earth dur-
ing the preceding night, flakes are faUing, forming
a woolly covering, white and silent as that which
falls from the cotton tree. Winter is come ! Winter
is come ! The wind whistles, the stoves roar. In
their big cage with its gilded lattice, the humming-
birds chirp no longer. Their tiny wings, blue, rose-
hued, ruby-red, and sea-green, are motionless now.
It is pitiful to see them huddling against each
other, their bodies benumbed and swollen with the
cold, — such slender beaks, and eyes like pin-heads.
Yonder, in the park, frost has eaten into the ham-
mock, and it, too, shivers with the cold. The
branches of the pine tree are sheathed in a cover-
ing that looks like spun glass. The little creole

302 Monday Tales,

feels the cold, and does not care to venture out
of doors.

Curled up snugly beside the fire, like one of her
birds, she whiles away the hours making sunshine
of her memories. In the great fireplace a bright
fire burns, and in its flames she seems to see all
the scenes of her native land, the great quays
basking in sunshine, the dripping sugar-cane, and
the floating, golden dust of grains of maize; then
the afternoon siesta, the light blinds and straw
mattings, — and those starlit evenings, with fire-
flies, and millions of tiny wings buzzing among the
flowers, and the tulle meshes of mosquito-netting.

And while she dreams at the fireside, the winter
days follow each other, growing shorter and
gloomier. Every morning a dead humming-bird
is picked up in the cage ; soon there are but two
of them left, two tufted bits of green plumage
that lean, bristhng, against each other in a corner
of the cage. That morning the little Creole her-
self was unable to rise. Like a Turkish felucca
lodged fast in Northern ice-fields, she is griped
and paralyzed by the cold. The day is sombre,
the chamber dreary. The frost has curtained the
window-panes with a heavy covering, like lustreless
silk; the city itself seems dead, and through the
silent streets the steam snow-plough wheezes dole-
fully. The Creole, lying in bed, tries to divert
herself by watching the flash from the spangles
of her fan, and passes hours gazing at herself in
the mirrors of her native land, fringed with tall
Indian plumes.

The Mirror, 303

Growing ever shorter, ever gloomier, the winter
days follow each other. Surrounded by her lace
curtains, the little Creole droops, is wretched.
What saddens her most of all is to find that from
her bed she cannot see the fire. It seems to her
that she has lost her country a second time. From
time to time she asks, " Is there a fire in the
room?" "Why, of course there is, little one.
The fireplace is aflame ! Don't you hear the logs
crackling, the fir-cones bursting? — Oh, look,
look ! " But though she leans forward, the flames
are too far away for her ; she cannot see them, and
the thought renders her disconsolate. But one
evening, as she lies there, pensive and pale, her
head barely touching her pillow, and her eyes
ceaselessly directed towards that beautiful invisible
flame, her beloved approaches her bedside, and
lifts one of the mirrors lying upon the bed: "You
want to see the flame, mignonne ? Well, then,
wait a moment," and kneeling before the fire, he
tries to hold the mirror so that she shall receive
a reflection of the magic flame. " Can you see
it?" "No! I see nothing." — "How now?" "I
cannot see it yet." Then suddenly receiving full
upon her face a flash of light that envelops her,
"Oh, I see it!" cries the Creole, overjoyed, and
she dies with a smile on her lips, two tiny flames
leaping from the depths of her eyes.

304 Mojiday Tales,

e

THE BLIND EMPEROR, OR A JOURNEY

IN BAVARIA IN SEARCH OF A

JAPANESE TRAGEDY.

COLONEL VON SIEBOLDT.

In the spring of 1866, Colonel Sieboldt, a Bava-
rian in the service of Holland, well known in the
scientific world through his charming works upon
the Japanese flora, came to Paris to submit to the
Emperor a vast project for an international associa-
tion for the exploitation of that marvellous Nipon-
Jepon-Japon (Land of the Rising Sun), where he
had resided for thirty years. While awaiting an
audience in the Tuileries, the illustrious traveller,
who had remained decidedly Bavarian in spite of
his sojourn in Japan, passed his evenings in a little
beer-shop of the Faubourg Poissonniere, in com-
pany with a young lady of Munich who travelled
with him, and whom he introduced as his niece.
There it was I first ran across him. The physiog-
nomy of this tall old man, erect and sturdy in spite
of his sixty-two years, his long white beard, his
interminable fur-lined coat, its button-hole decked
with ribbons of various colors presented by divers
academies of science, his foreign manner, in which

The Blind Emperor. 305

there were at once timidity and boldness, his whole
appearance was sufficient to cause all eyes to turn
in his direction whenever he entered. The colonel
would seat himself solemnly, and draw from his
pocket a big black radish ; then the little lady who
accompanied him, decidedly German in the cut of
her short skirt, her fringed shawl, and her little tour-
ist's-hat, would proceed to cut that radish in thin
slices after the fashion of her country, cover it with
salt, and offer it to her " ouncl^y' as she called him in
her thin voice, as small as a mouse's, and both of
them would begin to nibble, sitting vis-d-viSy tran-
quilly, and with perfect simplicity, without the
slightest suspicion that to behave in Paris exactly
as if in Munich might cause ridicule. Truly this
was an original and sympathetic couple, and it did
not take long for us to become great friends. The
worthy man, perceiving how well inclined I was to
listen when he talked of Japan, asked me to revise
his Memoir, and I hastened to accept the task,
prompted as much by regard for this aged Sinbad
as by the desire to plunge more deeply into the
study of that beautiful country, for which he had
communicated his own love to me. This labor of
revision was by no means a light one. The entire
Memoir was written in the same bizarre French
that Colonel Sieboldt spoke.

" Si j'aurais des actioiinaires, — si je r/unirais
des fonds,'' and those blunders of pronunciation
which made him say regularly, " Les grandes boites
de rAsie" for ''Les grandes poetes de tAsie'' and
" le Chabo7i " for *' le JapoftJ' Add to this, many

20

3o6 Monday Tales,

of his phrases were fifty lines in length, without a
period, a single comma, nowhere a breathing-place,
— and yet the whole so well arranged in the brain of
the author that to omit a single word seemed to him
impossible ; if it occurred to me to cut out a line,
he very quickly transferred it to another place.

Notwithstanding, this terrible man was so inter-
esting with his Chabon that I forgot to be tired
while I labored, and when the letter arrived grant-
ing an audience, the Memoir was already fairly
well in shape.

Poor old Sieboldt ! I can still see him walking
towards the Tuileries, all his crosses upon his
breast, in his uniform with that fine colonel's coat of
scarlet and gold, which he brought from his trunk
only upon great occasions. In spite of his oft-
repeated " brum, brum," as he straightened his tall
figure again and again, as I felt his arm tremble
figalnst mine, and noted the unusual pallor of his
nose, the fine, big nose of a scientist, crimsoned by
study and the beer of Munich, I knew that he was
deeply moved. That evening, when I saw him
again, he was triumphant. Napoleon III. had
received him between two doors, listened for five
minutes, and dismissed him with that favorite
phrase, " I will see. I will consider." As result
of which, the naive Japanese was already talking of
renting the first story of the Grand Hotel, writing
to the journals, and Issuing a prospectus. I had
great difficulty in making him understand that his
Majesty's reflections might require some time, and
that meanwhile it would be better to return to

The Blind Emperor, 307

Munich, where Parliament had just voted funds for
the purchase of his great collection. My remarks
finally convinced him, and on his departure he
promised me, in return for the trouble I had taken'
with his famous Memoir, a Japanese tragedy of the
sixteenth century, entitled The Blmd Emperor, a
precious masterpiece, absolutely unknown in
Europe, and translated by him expressly for his
friend Meyerbeer. The master was about to write
the music for the choruses at the time of his death.
You perceive that the gift the good man wished
to make me was a valuable one.

Unfortunately, some days after his departure,
war broke out in Germany, and I heard nothing
more of my tragedy. The Prussians having in-
vaded Wiirtemberg and Bavaria, it was quite
natural, in his patriotic excitement and the confu-
sion attending an invasion, that the colonel should
have forgotten my Blind Emperor. But I thought
of it myself more than ever, and — I confess —
partly stirred by a longing for my Japanese trag-
edy, partly moved by curiosity to see what war
and invasion at close range were like, — O ye
gods ! how the horror of it all remains in my
memory, — I decided one fine morning to set out
for Munich.

II.

SOUTH GERMANY.

Talk of your phlegmatic nations ! In the
midst of war and burning beneath that intense

3o8 Monday Tales.

August sun, all the country beyond the Rhine, from
the bridge of Kehl to Munich itself, — how tranquil
and cold it all seemed. Through the thirty win-
dows of the Wiirtemberg car, which took me
slowly, sluggishly across ^wabia, landscape after
landscape was unrolled, mountains, ravines, masses
of rich verdure, which suggested the presence of re-
freshing streams. Upon many a slope which would
disappear as the train moving on passed through
some wind of the road, peasant-girls were seen,
standing stiffly in the midst of their cattle, clad in
red petticoats and velvet bodices, and the trees
around them were so green that one might almost
fancy he saw a miniature landscape taken from one
of those tiny fir-boxes fragrant with the resinous
odors of Northern forests. Now and then we would
see a dozen foot-soldiers, clad in green, covering
step in a meadow, heads erect, legs raised, bearing
their guns as if they were cross-bows, perhaps the
army of some Nassau prince. Sometimes other
trains passed, as slowly as our own, loaded with
big boats, where the Wiirtemberg soldiery, huddled
as if in some allegoric chariot, sang three-part bar-
carolles as they fled before the Prussians. There
were halts at every refreshment-station, and one
saw major-domos with rigid smiles, and those fat,
good-natured faces, napkins tucked under their
chins, standing before enormous hunches of meat,
served with sweetmeats ; then came the royal Park
of Stuttgard, full of coaches, toilets, cavalcades,
waltz-music playing about the fountains, quadrilles
while a battle was in progress at Kissingen. Really,

The Blind Emperor, 309

when I recall all this, and think of what I saw four
years later in that same mouth of August, locomo-
tives madly rushing no one knew where, as if the
great sun itself had bewitched their boilers, railroad
cars pulling up on the very battlefield, rails cut,
trains in distress, France reduced day by day, as
the Eastern Line grew shorter and shorter, — all
along the route abandoned tracks, and a dismal as-
semblage of railway-stations, which were left in their
loneliness, in a deserted land full of wounded men,
forgotten like so much luggage — I begin to believe
that the war between Prussia and the Southern
States was but a sham war after all, and that, in
spite of all which could be told us, the German
wolves do not devour each other.

To see Munich was to be convinced of this.
The evening when I arrived, a beautiful Sunday
evening, the sky thick with stars, all the city was
out of doors. A vague, joyous rumor was floating
in the air, as indistinct beneath the light, as dust
raised by the footsteps of all these promenaders.
In the cool, vaulted beer-cellars, in the beer-gardens
where colored lanterns swayed, to and fro with a
dim light, everywhere was heard, mingling with the
noise of the covers of beer-mugs dropping heavily,
the sound of brass and wood instruments, uttering
triumphal notes. It was in one of these harmonic
beer-shops I discovered Colonel Sieboldt, seated
with his niece, before that everlasting black radish
of his.

At a side-table, the Minister of Foreign Affairs
was drinking bock in company with the king's

3IO Monday Tales,

uncle. All around us were seated the worthy citi-
zens of Munich with their families, officers in spec-
tacles, students wearing little caps, red, blue, and
sea-green ; all were grave and silent, and listened
religiously to Herr Gungl's orchestra, as they
watched the clouds of smoke rising from their
pipes, with no more concern about Prussia than if
it did not exist. The colonel seemed slightly dis-
turbed when he saw me, and I believe that he
lowered his voice perceptibly when he addressed
me in French. Around us were whispers of
^^ Frantzose ! Fraittzose ! " and I could feel the ill-will,
every glance conveyed. " Let us go," said Colonel
Sieboldt, and once we were outside, his smile was
as frank as of old. The worthy man had not for-
gotten his promise, but he had been very much ab-
sorbed in the arrangement of his Japanese collection,
which he had sold to the State. That was the reason
why he had not written. As for my tragedy, it was
at Wurtzbourg, in the hands of Frau von Sieboldt,
and to reach that place it was necessary to obtain
a special permission from the French Embassy,
for the Prussians were approaching Wurtzbourg, and
it was now very difficult to gain entry. But I had
so strong a desire to obtain my Blind Emperor
that I would have gone to the Embassy that very
evening had I not feared that M. de Trevise would
have gone to bed.

The Blind Emperor, 311

III.

IN A DROSKY.

Early the following morning, the landlord of
the Grappe-Bleue persuaded me to climb to the top
of one of those small conveyances which stand in
hotel-courtyards, and can always be hired by trav-
ellers who wish to be shown the curiosities of the
city, from which equipage monuments and avenues
appear exactly as if you had encountered them upon
the pages of a guide-book. On this occasion the
city was not to be shown to me, but I was to be
conducted to the French Embassy, ** Frantzsosiche
Ambassad ! " the hotel-keeper repeated twice. The
coachman, a little man in blue livery, a gigantic
hat upon his head, seemed much astonished at
the new destination of his fiacre, or his droscJikeUy
as they call it in Munich. But I was even more
astounded than he when I saw him turn his back
upon the noble quarter where we were, and enter a
poorer part of the city, which for a long distance
was lined with factories, working-men's lodgings,
and tiny gardens ; then he passed beyond the gates
and out of the city.

''Ambassad Frajitzsosiche f I asked uneasily
from time to time.

** Ya, Ya!' answered the little man, and we rolled
on and on. I would have gladly received further
information, but what the deuce was to be done?

312 Monday Tales,

My guide could nox speak French, and I myself
at this epoch knew only two or three phrases of
the German language, very elementary ones at
that, which related merely to bread, bed, meat, and
had naught to do with such words as " ambassador."
And even these few words I could only deliver set
to music, and this is the reason : —

Some years before, with a comrade almost as
mad as myself, I had travelled across Alsace,
Switzerland, and the Duchy of Baden, — a real
colporteur's journey, knapsacks strapped upon our
shoulders, striding across the country, a dozen
leagues at a stretch, turning aside from the cities, of
which we wished to see nothing more than the
gates, following each tiny by-way, never knowing
whither it would lead us. Often the result would
be that we had to pass a night, unexpectedly, in
the open field, or in some barn whose roof was
the sky, but what made our journeys still more
eventful was the fact that neither of us knew a sin-
gle word of German. By the aid of a little pocket-
dictionary purchased as we were passing through
Basle, we had been able to construct a few ex-
tremely simple phrases, quite naive in character,
such as " Vir vollen trinken Bier,'' ''We want beer
to drink," '' Vir vollen essen Kdse!' '' We want some
cheese to eat." Unfortunately, though they may
not seem at all complex to you, it cost us much
labor to retain these accursed phrases. We did
not, in the comedian's language, *' have them at
our tongue's end." Then it occurred to us that we
would set them to music, and the little air we had

The Blind Emperor. 313

composed was so well adapted to the purpose that
the words entered our heads along with the notes,
and it was impossible to utter these phrases without
dragging along the music. It was indeed a sight,
to see the expression on the face of the Baden
inn-keepers, when of an evening we would enter
the great hall of the Gasthaus, and immediately
our knapsacks were unbuckled chant in resonant
voices : —

" Vir vollen trinken Bier (repeat),
Vir vollen, ya, vir vollen,

Ya!
Vir vollen trinken Bier."

Since that time I have become most proficient m
German; I have had so many opportunities to
learn the language. My vocabulary has been en-
riched by a host of expressions and phrases ; but I
say them, I sing them no longer ! Ah, no ! I
have not the least wish to sing them.

But to return to my droschken.

We went at a slow trot down an avenue bordered
with trees and white houses. Suddenly the coach-
man paused. *' Da^' he said pointing out to me a
little white house, hidden among the acacias, which
seemed to me somewhat secluded and quiet for an
embassy. Three copper knobs, one above the
other, gleamed in a corner of the wall beside the
door. I pulled the first one I chanced to touch;
the door opened, and I entered an elegant and
comfortable vestibule, flowers and carpets every'
where. On the staircase half a dozen Bavarian

314 Monday Tales,

chambermaids came running to answer my ring,
standing in line, with that awkward appearance of
birds without wings that characterizes all the women
beyond the Rhine.

I inquired, ^' Ambassad Frantzosiche f They
made me repeat this twice, and then began to
laugh, so loudly that they shook the banister. I
returned to my coachman furious, and endeavored
to make him understand, with an abundance of
gestures, that he was mistaken, and the Embassy
was not there. " Ya^ ya!' responded the little man,
without the slightest show of emotion, and we re-
turned toward Munich.

I must beheve that our ambassador then at
Munich changed his domicile very frequently, or
else my coachman, unwilling to depart from custom
with regard to his droschken, was determined I
should see, if possible, the city and its environs. At
all events, our entire morning was passed in driving
over Munich in every direction, in search of that
fantastic Embassy. After two or three attempts I
ended by refusing to descend from the carriage.
The coachman went in search, returned, stopped
in certain streets, and appeared to ask information.
I allowed myself to be driven on, no longer occu-
pied except in looking about me. What a weari-
some, cold city, this Munich, with its great avenues,
its rows of palaces, its over-sized streets, where
every footstep resounds, its open-air museum of
Bavarian celebrities, who seem so very dead as one
glances at their effigies in white marble.

What colonnades, arcades, frescos, obelisks.

The Blind Emperor, 315

Greek temples, propylaea, with distichs in golden
letters upon their frontons ! So much effort at
grandeur ; but one cannot help feeling the empti-
ness and pomposity of it all, finding at the end of
each avenue a triumphal arch where the horizon
alone passes, and porticos open to the blue sky.
So I picture to myself those imaginary cities, Italy
mingling with Germany, where Musset parades the
incurable ennui of his Fantasio and the solemn,
stupid, bewigged head of the Prince of Mantua.

This drive in the droschken lasted five or six
hours, at the end of which time the coachman
brought me back triumphantly to the courtyard of
the Grappe-Bleiie, cracking his whip, quite proud to
have shown me Munich. As for the Embassy, I
finally found it two streets from my hotel ; but it did
me little good, for the chancellor was unwilling to
give me a passport for Wurtzbourg. It seems that
we were not very favorably regarded in Bavaria at
this time; it would have been dangerous for a
Frenchman to venture beyond the outposts. I
was consequently obliged to wait in Munich until
Frau von Sieboldt should find occasion to send me
the Japanese tragedy.

IV.

THE BLUE COUNTRY.

Singular fact ! These worthy Bavarians, who
bore us so much ill-will because we did not espouse
their cause in this war, felt not the least animosity

3i6 Monday Tales,

towards the Prussians, — neither shame at defeat,
nor hatred for their conqueror. ** They are the
finest soldiers in the world," the landlord of the
Grappe-Bleue said to me with a certain pride
the morning of Kissingen, and that was the general
sentiment in Munich. In the cafes there was a rush
for the Berlin newspapers, and side-splitting
laughter at the pleasantries of Kladderadatsch,
those heavy Berlin jests, as ponderous as that
famous pile-hammer of the Krupp factory, which
weighs fifty thousand kilogrammes. As every one
was certain that the Prussians would soon enter the
city, all were disposed to receive them well. The
beer-shops laid in special suppHes of sausages
and meat-balls, and houses in the city began to
prepare chambers for the officers.

Only the museums manifested some uneasiness.
One day, upon entering the Pinakothek, I saw that
the walls were bare, and the guardians of the place
busied in nailing away the paintings in great pack-
ing-cases, ready to be sent to the South. It was
feared that the conquerors, extremely scrupulous
regarding personal property, would not be quite so
respectful of the collections of the State, and of all
the museums of the city, only Colonel Sieboldt's re-
mained open. In his capacity as a Dutch officer,
decorated with the Eagle of Prussia, the colonel
felt assured that none would dare touch his collec-
tion, and while awaiting the arrival of the Prussians
he merely walked back and forth in full uniform
through the three long halls which the king had
given him, fronting upon the court-garden, a sort

The Blind Emperor, 317

of Palais-Royal, but greener and gloomier than ours,
surrounded by cloistered walls painted in fresco.

In that great, dismal palace, that exhibition of
curiosities, all carefully labelled, did indeed form a
museum, a melancholy assemblage of things come
from far-away lands, and snatched from the sphere
in which they belonged. And old Sieboldt himself
seemed to form part of the collection. I went to
see him every day, and together we passed long
hours turning over the leaves of those Japanese
manuscripts ornamented with plates, those scientific
and historic works, the former so immense that it
was necessary to spread them out upon the floor in
order to open them, the others about as long as a
finger-nail, legible only with the aid of a magnifying-
glass, gilded, exquisitely done, and very valuable.
Herr von Sieboldt aroused my admiration with his
Japanese encyclopaedia in eighty-two volumes, and
even translated for me an ode of Hiak-nin, a
marvellous work, published under the supervision
of the Emperors of Japan, and containing the biog-
raphies, portraits, and lyric fragments of one hun-
dred of the most famous poets of the Empire.
Then we arranged his collection of armor, golden
helmets with huge chin-pieces, cuirasses, coats of
mail, great two-handed swords, which suggested the
days of Knight-templars, and with which a body
could be ripped open so easily.

He explained, too, the amorous devices painted
upon gilded shells, introduced me to Japanese
interiors, showing me the model of his house
at Yedo, a lacquered miniature where everything

3i8 Monday Tales,

was represented, from the silken window-shades to
the rock-work of the garden, a Lilliputian garden,
decorated with tiny plants and indigenous flora.
But more than anything else I was interested in
those objects of Japanese worship, those tiny,
painted, wooden gods, chasubles, consecrated vases,
portative chapels, veritable pupazzi theatres, which
every faithful worshipper has in some corner of
his house. Tiny red idols are placed in the rear.
A slender knotted cord hangs in front of them.
Before commencing his prayer, the son of Japan
bows, and by means of this cord strikes a bell
which shines at the foot of the altar. It is thus he
attracts the attention of his gods. I took a childish
pleasure in ringing these magic bells, and allowing
my fancy to wander, carried onward by that wave
of sound, even to the heart of tho^e Oriental Asias
where the rising sun seems to have gilded all things,
from the blades of great swords to the edges of
tiny books.

When I left the museum my eyes were still
sated with all those reflections of lacquer and jade,
and the brilliant coloring of geographical charts,
especially on the days when the colonel had read to
me one of those Japanese odes, of a poetic form
both chaste and distinguished, original and pro-
found, the streets of Munich produced a singular
effect upon me. Japan and Bavaria were countries
entirely new to me, both of which I became ac-
quainted with at the same time, depending on the
latter for my knowledge of the former ; the two
were mingled confused, in my brain, until they

The Blind Emperor, 319

seemed one, an indistinct, shadowy land where
everything was tinged with the color blue. That
wandering blue line which I had just seen upon
Japanese cups, sketched in cloudy outline, I
found again traced upon the blue frescos of
the walls of Munich ; blue soldiers were drilling
in the public squares, with Japanese helmets on
their heads ; the vast tranquil vault overhead was
tinged with the blue of the forget-me-not ; and it
was a coachman in blue livery who had taken me
to that hotel, the Grappe-Bleue !

V.

A SAIL ACROSS LAKE STARNBERG.

In the blue country also was that shining lake
whose sparkling image I still recall. Merely in
writing the word " Starnberg " I saw again that
great sheet of water close to Munich, its smooth
surface reflecting all the sky above ; the smoke of a
little streamer which sails along its shores lends a
certain life and homelike air to the picture. On
every side rise the sombre masses formed by the
foliage of extensive parks, separated from each
other in places by villas, which make white, gleam-
ing gaps here and there. At a still greater ele-
vation, villages with roofs crowded close together,
nest-like houses, built upon every acclivity; and
looming above these rise the distant Tyrol moun-
tains, the color of the atmosphere in which they

320 Monday Tales,

seem to float, and In one corner of this picture a
scarcely classic but very charming figure in long
gaiters and red, silver-buttoned waistcoat, — the
old, old ferryman who cruised about with me one
whole Sunday, and seemed so proud to have a
Frenchman in his boat.

It was not the first time he had had this honor.
He remembered very well that in his youth he had
once ferried an officer across the lake. That was
sixty years ago, and from the respectful fashion in
which the worthy fellow spoke to me, I could judge
what impression had been made upon him by that
Frenchman of 1806, some gallant Oswald of the
First Empire, in tights and hunting-boots, wearing
a gigantic schapska, and all the insolence of a con-
queror ! If the ferryman of Starnberg Is alive to-
day, I doubt whether he has so much admiration
for Frenchmen.

Upon that beautiful lake and in the open parks
surrounding the residential part of the city, the
citizens of Munich disported themselves of a Sab-
bath, on pleasure bent. The war had not caused
the slightest departure from this custom. On the
shore of the lake, I saw in passing that the Inns
were full of people. Corpulent dames were seated
In a circle, their skirts appearing upon the lawn
like balloons. Between the branches, which almost
touched each other above the blue sheet of water,
groups of Gretchens and students passed by,
wreathed In a nimbus of smoke from their pipes.
A little farther on, in a glade of Maximilian Park,
a bridal party of gaudily dressed, boisterous peas-

The Blind Emperor, 321

ants were drinking before long, trestle-like tables,
while a green-coated game-keeper, standing with
his gun in his hand, in the attitude of one about to
fire, was demonstrating the power of that marvel-
lous needle-gun of which the Prussians had made
use so successfully. But for that sight, I would
scarcely have remembered that fighting was in
progress but a few leagues from us. Yet so it
was, and the fact was perfectly credible ; for that
very evening on my return to Munich, I saw upon
a little place, as sheltered and isolated as some
church-nook, candles burning around the Marien-
Saulcy and women were kneeling before it, their
prayers shaken by prolonged sobs.

VI.

BAVARIA.

In spite of all that has been written for some
years past upon French chauvinism and our patri-
otic follies, vanities, and fanfaronades, I do not
believe that there is in all Europe a more boastful,
vainglorious people, or one more infatuated with
themselves, than the people of Bavaria. All its
small history, ten detached pages of the history of
Germany, is inscribed upon the streets of Munich
in gigantic, disproportionate features, in paintings
and monuments, like one of those toy Christmas-
books meant merely for children, with scarcely
anything by way of text, but full of pictures. In

32 2 Monday Tales.

Paris we have only one Arc de Triomphe, — there
they have ten triumphal arches, a Gate of Victory,
a Marshals' Porch, and I dare not say how many
obelisks stand there, erected in commemoration of
tJie bravery of Bavarian warriors.

It is something to be a great man in that
country. One is sure of having his name engraved
everywhere in stone and bronze ; at least one statue
of him will stand in some public place, or sur-
mounting some frieze, amid white marble figures
of victory. This insane fondness for statues,
apotheoses, and commemorative monuments is
carried to such an extent that at every street-
corner there are empty pedestals, erected in readi-
ness for the unknown celebrities whom to-morrow
may bring forth. By this time every place must
be occupied, — the war of 1870 furnished them with
so many heroes, so many glorious episodes.

For instance, it pleases me to fancy that I see
the illustrious General von der Than, clad in
antique undress, standing in the midst of a verdant
square, upon a beautiful pedestal, ornamented with
bas-reliefs representing on one side Bavarian
Warriors setting fire to the town of Bazeilles, on the
other. Bavarian Warriors assassinating wounded
French soldiers at the field-hospital of Woerth.
What a splendid monument that would make !

Not content with having their great men scat-
tered in this fashion over the entire city, the
Bavarians have reunited them all in a Temple
situated at the city gates, and named the Ruhmes-
halle (Hall of Fame). Beneath a vast portico

The Blind Emperor.

o^j

of marble columns whose projecting angles form
three sides of a square, arranged upon consoles,
are the busts of electors, kings, generals, juriscon-
sults, etc. A catalogue may be obtained in the
custodian's room.

SHghtly in front rises a colossal statue, Bavaria
herself, ninety feet high, standing at the summit of
one of those great gloomy staircases which are
open to the air on all sides, and rise in the midst
of verdurous pubHc gardens. With a lion-skin
upon her shoulders, her sword clenched in one
hand, in the other the crown of Fame {Fame
always!) this immense bronze figure, at the hour
when I saw it, towards the close of one of those
August days when the shadows lengthen enor-
mously, filled the silent plain with its emphatic
gesture. All around, a stretch of columns, and
profiles of celebrated men grimacing in the setting
sun. The scene was so deserved, so dismal ! And
as I heard the sound of my own footsteps echoing
upon the flaggings, there returned to me again
that impression of emptiness and grandeur com-
bined which had pursued me since the moment of
my arrival in Munich.

Through the interior of Bavaria runs a little
winding, cast-iron staircase. The whim seized me,
and I climbed to the very top and seated myself
for a moment in the head of the colossus, a tiny
rotunda-like room, lighted by two windows which
formed the eyes of Bavaria. In spite of those
open eyes facing the blue horizon of the Alps, it
was very hot in that little room. The bronze,

324 Monday Tales,

warmed by the sun, enveloped me in an oppres-
sive heat, and I was obHged to descend again very
quickly. Nevertheless, I was there long enough
to know thee, O mighty Bavaria ! big-voiced and
grandiloquent, I have seen thy chest without a
heart, thy huge arms, like those of some singer,
puffy and without muscles, thy sword of wrought
metal, and I have discovered in thy hollow head
the dull drunkenness and torpor of the beer-
drinker's brain. And to think that, in embarking
upon that mad war of 1870, our diplomats counted
upon thee ! Ah ! if they too had only taken the
trouble to ascend Bavaria.

VII.

THE BLIND EMPEROR.

I HAD been ten days in Munich without receiv-
ing the slightest news of my tragedy. I had begun
to despair, when one evening in the little beer-
garden where we were taking our meals, I saw my
colonel appear with a radiant countenance. *' I
have it," he said ; " come to-morrow morning to
the museum. We will read it together ; you shall
see for yourself how fine it is." He was very ani-
mated that evening. His eyes sparkled as he
spoke. He declaimed quite loudly whole passages
of the tragedy, trying to sing the choruses. Two
or three times his niece was obliged to make some

The Blind Emperor, 325

attempt at restraining him, with her ** OiincU,
0U7icU ! " I attributed this fever and exaltation to
genuine lyric enthusiasm. And indeed the frag-
ments that he recited to me seemed very beautiful,
and I was in haste to obtain possession of my
masterpiece.

The following day, when I arrived in the court- .
garden I was much surprised to find the collection
hall closed. For the colonel to be absent from his
museum was so extraordinary an event that as I
hastened to his quarters a vague fear took posses-
sion of me. The street where he dwelt was a little
out of the city, a short, quiet street, with gardens
and low houses ; it was less quiet than usual ;
groups of people were talking in the doorways.
The door of the Sieboldt house was closed, the
shutters open. People were entering it, leaving it,
with sorrow in their mien. One could feel that
this was one of those catastrophes too large for a
single home to hold it, and that it had overleaped
its confines and invaded the street as well. As I
entered I heard sobs. They came from the rear
of a little passage, where was a large room as
well-lighted and crowded with objects as a school-
room. In it was a long, white, wooden table,
books, manuscripts, glass cases for collections,
albums covered with embroidered silk, and upon
the wall, Japanese armor, engravings, big geograph-
ical charts, and amid all this disorder of study
and travel the colonel lay stretched upon his
bed, his long, straight beard resting upon his
chest, while weeping, at one side, knelt the poor

326 Monday Tales,

little ^^ otincUr Colonel Sieboldt had died sud-
denly in the night.

I left Munich the same evening, not having the
heart to disturb so much sorrow merely for the
sake of a literary fantasy, and so it was that I never
knew more of that marvellous Japanese tragedy
than the mere title : The Blind Emperor ! Since
that day we have seen another tragedy enacted for
which that title imported from Germany would
have been most appropriate ; sinister indeed it
was, but not Japanese, that tragedy full of blood
and tears.

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